


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by Wicked42



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: "I'm fine" "No you're not", AU, Alternate Universe, Cage Fights, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Flirting, Hospital Scenes, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Whump, and all the other stuff that happens with whump :P, fool lesbians in love, injuries and comfort, reinhardt is dad, whumpy things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29505765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: “It’s unsafe. Just—just let me take your vitals.”“Ask me to dinner first,” Fareeha replied, a lilt of humor in her voice.----------Angela Ziegler is a new resident, determined to help anyone she can. Fareeha might have new injuries every week, but that doesn't mean she needs a doctor. Of course, fate has other plans.Or, the underground cage fighter / exasperated doctor romance AU no one asked for.Filled with just about every great trope you can imagine, promise. Plus whump. Lots and lots of whump.
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 45
Kudos: 138





	1. The Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> I am absolute trash for this couple, frankly. And since Pharah is my main, there's nothing greater than digging into her psyche and analyzing allll her abandonment issues. Fiercely independent, my ass. :P 
> 
> As always, huge thanks to my fabulous beta, [ Alettepegasus ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alettepegasus), for both her edits, and her panicked Mercy heals whenever I use my ult without calling it first. >.>
> 
> \-----------
> 
> There shouldn't be any huge triggers for a while, but I'll make sure to tag and mention them accordingly. There will, of course, be whump and violence in this fic, but since this fic is about the feelz, I probably won't get graphically descriptive. 
> 
> Also, blanket disclaimer that I am neither a resident doctor nor a cage fighter. Any inaccuracies are my fault and my burden to bear. Please don't point them out. XD

She met Fareeha Amari on her second day of residency at Gibraltar General.

And, embarrassingly, Angela almost walked right past her.

The new Doctor Ziegler was impeccably early, the raw satisfaction of knowing a hospital needed her, _expected_ her, swept her into absolute alertness an hour before her alarm ever rang. For the first time in five years, she completely ignored the lab desk in her bedroom, the chaos of her research on nanite technology. That project could wait. 

There was something immensely satisfying about the recent change in daily routine: gone were the textbooks and study guides, replaced with curt words shouted through white hallways by harried nurses.

People appreciated her. And that was a comfort she hadn’t felt in years.

So focused on checking into the hospital early, so mentally prepared for her next twelve-hour shift, Angela almost didn’t acknowledge the woman hobbling out the hospital’s glass doors.

Two things prevented her from ignoring that woman entirely:

First, she was _attractive_. Angela didn’t used to have time to date, but now she was a doctor with a bit of room to breathe. Which meant she absolutely noticed how the woman’s angular cheekbones directly contrasted her strong jaw, how her dark eyes somehow amplified the rich tone of her skin. She was tall, topping Angela by several inches, and in peak shape, toned muscle barely hidden by a black t-shirt and jeans.

Second, she had a fierce bruise blossoming under one cheek.

The moment passed in rapid succession, and then she was gone, out the double doors and into the bare light of early morning. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and she tugged out a pair of aviator sunglasses with one clearly stiff arm.

Angela stopped dead in the center of the lobby, staring after her.

“Doctor?” one of the nurses—she hadn’t caught his name yet—asked. He probably didn’t know her, either, especially since she was technically just an intern. But wear a white coat and a badge in a hospital, and people drew assumptions. “Is something wrong?”

“Who’s that woman?” Angela found herself asking.

The nurse followed her gaze. “Ah, I’m not sure. She never checked in.”

Concern piqued her interest. She arrived at a decision in seconds; after all, she was an hour early for her shift, still. Angela flashed the nurse a bright smile and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The glass doors swooshed open for her, and the brisk morning chill slammed against her skin. Angela was from Switzerland, however, and was unphased by this. The taller woman—middle-eastern… Egyptian, based on that tattoo—didn’t seem so lucky. She shuddered and hunched her shoulders, then winced at the motion.

Angela felt dwarfed by her, but the strange woman was anything but threatening. So the doctor stepped boldly forward, planting her feet. This was her hospital, after all, and this woman clearly needed medical attention.

She waited until the woman’s gaze shifted towards her, then gestured inside. “The emergency room is through these doors.”

Considering the woman had just _left_ the lobby, this was an empty statement. Angela couldn’t see past her dark lenses, but the downward twist of her lips implied confusion.

“Oh, uh—” the woman’s voice was somehow both velvety and rough. It was a delightful combination, one she seemed utterly unaware of. She cleared her throat, cast a glance inside, then finished lamely, “I’m not checking in.”

Angela’s eyes flicked to the bruise. Deep-set, shading a sickly yellow ringed in dark purple. Her left cheek was swollen—it might even be affecting her vision. One thin eyebrow quirked upward. 

“Just window shopping, then?”

Nearly hidden behind thick black hair, the woman’s ears colored red. Reluctantly, she lowered her phone. “I—no. I’m just—” She stopped, huffed in frustration, although Angela got the impression it wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. “My neighbor saw me this morning coming home, and—he worries. I let him bring me here, but I was never going to…” she tapered off.

To anyone else, it might seem like she’d just lost her train of thought. To Angela, it hinted at something more worrisome. Perhaps she’d been reading too many medical textbooks, but head injuries had a way of sneaking up on people.

“Let me see your eyes,” Angela said. It seemed like a brusque, unorthodox request, but Angela felt emboldened by her white jacket, her badge, her shiny new MD. She’d become a doctor to help people, and she wasn’t a fool.

Coming home early in the morning with a shiny new bruise on her face? This woman was probably an abuse victim.

She was also apparently good at taking orders, because she hesitated only a moment before removing the aviators.

Angela studied her eyes. She noticed the color only in passing—a shade of chocolate as rich as the caramel of her skin—before centering on the pupils. Full-blown dilation, with uneven size between the two of them. She could barely see the left one: the bruise had nearly swelled that eye shut. But it was enough.

“You have a concussion.”

Rather than seem concerned, the woman shrugged a shoulder, swaying at the motion. “Sounds about right.”

The “s” was slurred.

“Come on. I’ll need to do a full workup,” Angela said, and turned to lead her inside.

The woman stiffened, rooting to the spot instead. Angela paused, glancing over her shoulder, but the woman’s jaw set in stubborn determination. “I’m not—I’m not checking in,” she said again, like it was a mantra she’d repeated more than just today.

Abuse victims. Angela had been fortunate to steer clear of any nefarious partners, but the signs were incredibly obvious. Her gaze softened, and she had to remind herself that even though _she’d_ promised to help anyone she could, not everyone was in a place to accept it.

She faced the woman again, running through options. After a moment, she said, carefully, “I can get my medical kit and check you out here, if you’d prefer? No name required. Just let me make sure you’re alright.”

“My name is Fareeha,” the woman said, automatically.

Angela blinked. So records weren’t the issue, then.

“Okay, Fareeha. Will you sit down for me?” She gestured towards a green bench, metal planks glistening with early-morning dew.

Fareeha looked like she was seconds from dropping to the sidewalk, so it was a massive relief when she sunk onto the bench instead. She stared at her sunglasses, blinking hard as if to clear her vision. She probably heard a ringing in her ears, might even be wrestling a migraine. Angela’s fingers itched to probe the bruise, to check for a broken cheekbone, but she refrained.

“Will you wait here while I get my medical kit?”

Fareeha lifted her gaze, then shook her head. “A car is coming to—to get me.”

Too late, Angela noticed the phone in her hand was open to a rideshare app. Her heart skipped a beat—if this woman got into a car, left without supervision, she could fall asleep and never wake up.

Unacceptable.

“Please don’t leave yet.” Angela had, apparently, resorted to begging. Somehow, facing Fareeha’s raw gaze, she didn’t care. “It’s unsafe. Just—just let me take your vitals.”

“Ask me to dinner first,” Fareeha replied, a lilt of humor in her voice.

Angela stiffened, but it was clearly a joke… a deflection tactic, if she was being honest. It didn’t stop her cheeks from coloring. She tried to redirect it back to the matter at hand. 

“I’m a doctor. I care about your wellbeing.”

Fareeha stared at her, unfocused, like she’d misheard.

That was probably too cold and impersonal. She tried again: “It’s my second day. If I let someone collapse beside a taxi without trying my best to help, they’re going to cancel my residency.”

A slow, wry smile tilted Fareeha’s lips. “Sounds fake.” Her words were slurring again.

Angela found herself smirking. “It might be an exaggeration.” Then, softer, “Please?”

A pause.

“I can’t—pay you,” Fareeha whispered.

“I would never dream of asking,” Angela replied, squeezing her arm. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Numbly, Fareeha nodded.

Heart thumping, Angela flew inside to retrieve the tools she needed. Her breath was coming in short gasps by the time she returned to the emergency room’s entrance, but when the glass doors whooshed open… Fareeha was gone.

* * *

Everything hurt, and Fareeha was a coward.

The rideshare driver bitched about having to swing around the south side of the hospital, clearly annoyed at finding her out by the dumpsters after circling the building twice. He rambled in dark tones, casting her unsympathetic glances in his rearview mirror. More than once, he suggested harshly that he should turn around, drop her off at the emergency room.

She responded by saying nothing at all.

Eventually, possibly unnerved at her silence, he shut up and followed her chosen route.

It was a blessed thing, the peace of a backseat drive. It gave her time to get her symptoms under control—something she hadn’t quite been able to do since Reinhardt had insisted she visit the hospital.

Today _was_ worse than normal. She forgot to protect the face, and—whew, Zaryanova packed a punch.

Fareeha inhaled slowly and quietly, centering her mind the way her mother taught her. It did little to quell the nausea, but she wouldn’t actually throw up. She hadn’t puked since she was six, and a training session got a little out of hand. Instead, she filed it away as a miserable, minor annoyance, and left it at that.

The concussion, on the other hand… that was more serious. Her whole body ached, but it was nothing compared to how her vision darkened around the edges, threatening to drag her into the depths of unconsciousness. The ringing she’d heard since the punch was getting steadily louder, more of a shriek now, and it hadn’t exactly been quiet before.

She remembered—barely—getting home the first time. Pausing at her doorway to dry-heave. Reinhardt must have seen, nosy bastard. The drive to the hospital was a nauseating blur, but she must have convinced him to leave her there.

She walked in to complete the ruse.

Walked out when he left.

And then—that doctor—

Her headache flared, and Fareeha swallowed a moan. She wasn’t even sure what she needed, but the attentive—invasive—eyes of a cute blonde doctor wasn’t it.

This was fine.

She’d be fine.

The driver jerked into a spot by her apartment complex, and Fareeha prayed Reinhardt was at the fire station by now. She barely processed the driver’s rude, “Get out,” or how he peeled out of the parking lot before she had the chance to flip him off. Everything was blurring together, rippling like she was underwater.

Home.

Advil. Water. Alarm to wake up.

… Possibly a note to Reinhardt, just in case the alarm wasn’t enough.

Fareeha staggered upstairs, barely making it into her apartment before she tripped on the rug and crashed to the ground. A ratchet of pain lanced up her elbow, and she hissed, clenching her good eye shut. Her left one had already swollen to the point of absurdity—truly, if her mother saw her now, Fareeha could imagine the critical shake of her head, the displeased downturn of Ana’s lips.

Fareeha forced herself to roll onto her back, staring blearily at the folded flag framed in a perfect triangle on the mantle.

She never thought she’d miss her mother’s disapproval.

Advil.

Water.

Fareeha groaned, pushing upright. Somehow, then, she was in the kitchen. It was like watching herself from high overhead, moving automatically through practiced motions. This wasn’t her first concussion, and it wouldn’t be her last. Advil. Paper cup. Tap water. Chug.

Drips slipped down her chin, and the small cup _tap-tapped_ to the floor through her slick fingers. Fareeha stared at the spilled water, wondering when she’d lost her grip.

Alarm bells were going off in her brain, but she could hardly focus on them through the shrieking.

Alarm. That was right.

Wait. Note first.

She stumbled to the kitchen island, fumbling in her drawer for a pad of paper and a pencil. The tool felt awkward in her stiff fingers, like she’d forgotten how to use it. She blinked again, and there were words on the paper: totally illegible, a mashed combination of Arabic and English.

A distant part of her brain muttered, _great_.

Another, more vindictive part shouted, _shouldn’t have left the hospital, dumbass._

Fareeha didn’t care anymore. Everything hurt, and this was still better than some gorgeous doctor putting her life under a microscope, berating all her choices. She got enough of that from—from Reinhardt.

The note.

Damn it.

Fumbling, Fareeha crumbled it in her hand, staggered to the open front door—did she not close that? Eh, who cares—and tossed it across the hallway. It bounced off Reinhardt’s door. Good enough.

That counted as help, right?

…

He was going to kill her.

At least, he would, if the concussion didn’t do it first.

That thought wasn’t nearly as concerning as it had been thirty minutes ago. Fareeha sunk onto the couch, her final thought before she blacked out was, _Gonna punch Zarya until her_ parents _bleed next time_.

A smile tilted her lips, and regrettably, blessedly, the world went dark.

* * *

Considering it was her second day, Angela expected to be more focused—but Fareeha’s absence utterly shook her. Every spare second, every moment she wasn’t actively answering a senior physician's questions or helping a nurse with life-threatening codes, Angela was thinking about the mysterious woman.

Thinking of how she could have handled it differently.

If she’d just coaxed her inside—

If she’d just talked a bit longer to convince her she meant no harm—

If she’d just gotten her full name, or an address—

And then her senses would snap, brutally, _Sure, and then what?_

And then nothing. She couldn’t visit a patient’s house; that was a gross misstep of her position. Fareeha wasn’t technically a patient, but Angela couldn’t get in the habit of hunting down each and every flight risk.

Fareeha was old enough to declare she didn’t need medical attention. But that’s what struck Angela wrong, because she’d accepted help. Angela went inside to get medical supplies for a _reason_.

And then, in that brief period, Fareeha vanished.

What if whoever attacked her… came back?

“Intern, we need you to focus,” her attending physician, essentially her supervisor, snapped more than once.

And so the day progressed in a nauseating push-pull of attention and worry. By the end of her shift, it was deep into the midnight hours and Angela could barely keep her eyes open. She bid the other residents farewell and headed towards her car.

And on a whim, she went out the emergency room entrance, just in case.

Which was how she overheard a burly man saying, loudly, “ _Amari_. Check again. I dropped her off myself!”

He wasn’t shouting, but his booming voice carried regardless. Half the waiting room was staring at him, and the nurses at the front desk were getting either flustered, or outright annoyed. The one she’d interacted with earlier had gone home, and a snippy blonde guy had replaced him. He was the one who spoke now.

“I’m telling you, sir, we don’t have an Amari on file. She’s not a patient here.”

“And I’m telling you,” the man slammed an arm on the countertop, prominently displaying the firehouse insignia on his bulging blue shirt, “that I delivered her to you this morning.”

“Sir—”

“ _Captain_.”

The nurse huffed. “Captain. She is _not a patient here_.”

Angela gasped, skidding into the conversation with the grace of an oncoming train. “Wait, wait.” Her glasses—spectacles she only wore when tired or studying—slipped down her nose, and she shoved them back up. “What’s her first name?” Her heart pounded as she held her breath.

The men turned to stare at her. The captain’s irate expression rearranged to one of hope. “Fareeha. Fareeha Amari. She’s my—”

“Neighbor,” Angela finished.

His eyes widened. “Then she _was_ here.” Now he shot a dark glance at the nurse, who held up his hands.

Angela realized they were making a scene, and she was still technically a _very junior_ employee at this hospital. Subtly, she waved the burly man outside. After a lovely day, the temperatures had plummeted yet again, causing her to shiver in the cold.

Swiftly, she summarized what happened this morning.

The man’s expression darkened considerably as she spoke. When she finished, he muttered, “Stubborn as her mother, that one. Shoulda known she’d walk right back out.” With a growl of frustration, he spun away from Angela. “She went home. I’ll break down her door if I have to—”

“Wait,” Angela said before she could stop herself.

He paused, glancing at her.

“L-Let me come with you.”

The words were wrenched from her exhausted soul, placed into existence seemingly by sheer desperation. Desperation to find that mysterious woman again, make sure she was all right. To know more about her situation. To have a chance to fix the mistakes she’d made this morning, at the very least.

He frowned. “Aren’t you off duty? You should go home. Get some rest.”

It came from one first responder to another.

She’d meant to go home, curl up in bed, maybe have a glass of wine and decompress from the day. She’d _meant_ to spend her evening working on her nanite project, a desperate hope to use miniscule robots to heal supernaturally fast. That project had the potential to help more people than one field trip did tonight.

But this field trip would help that mysterious young woman, the one who’d joked about vitals and wore aviators like she was born in them.

Angela _had_ to know if Fareeha was okay. Her jaw set. “I won’t abandon someone in need. And if she’s in the state I suspect—she’s going to need me.”

A grim silence settled over them. It didn’t seem to fit the large man at all.

He scrubbed his face and said, “Come on, then. You can follow me home. Let’s pray we find her conscious so I can beat some sense into her.”

“I don’t condone that.” Angela jogged after him, trying very hard to ignore the sick feeling in her gut.

* * *

A loud crash had Fareeha jerking awake. Of course, it wasn’t that easy, clawing her way back to consciousness. Her instincts said something had knocked down her front door. (Had she locked it? Must have.) Those same instincts screamed at her to wake up, react to the threat—but they were muted immediately by her battered brain begging for quiet.

Voices were shouting.

It felt like she was sinking in syrup, watching her world lighten through thick, amber liquid, drowning as shapes hovered over her and frantic tones penetrated the deep. She couldn’t decipher them, but she tried.

Someone moved her off the thick couch cushions to a harder surface. Lifted her head, gently pried open an eyelid.

Then she was flying, hard points of contact under her knees and shoulders.

She wanted to scream, to fight, but she couldn’t move. Could barely manage to open her eyes—no, eye—long enough to see those shapes before they blurred out of existence.

In one brief, childlike moment, she felt like crying for her mother.

But reality slammed back into place, a cold reminder that the world wasn’t like that anymore.

Chest aching, head pounding, Fareeha couldn’t muster any new emotions. Alarm, fear, anxiety—it all faded into nothingness. She let her eyes drift shut.


	2. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela faces down her toughest patient yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't over by a long shot.   
> ... or a rocket shot. >.>
> 
> No tags in this chapter--just a lot of stubborn patient / irritated doctor drama. XD

Angela barely knew Fareeha Amari, but she already knew she was furious with her.

She stared at the woman’s face, her own eyelids drooping as a full day without sleep weighed on her. Angela was dressed in plain clothes, with eleven hours before she had to be back for another long hour shift. Her hair was hidden under a baseball cap, and she just prayed no one recognized her.

Hiding in her own hospital… sitting vigil at the bedside of a patient she had no right worrying about.

Even Reinhardt had returned home, enough of a veteran to the shiftwork lifestyle that he guarded his sleep carefully. He ordered the hospital, in no uncertain terms, not to let Fareeha check herself out, then promised to have Angela’s car dropped off by one of his firemen later that day.

He then suggested—rather forcefully—Angela go home, get some rest too. She’d smiled and waved and once he drove off, proceeded to do exactly what Fareeha had done that morning—and ignore him.

Instead, the doctor followed Fareeha’s near-lifeless body through the hospital doors, pretending she was on duty and hoping no one would notice that was a lie. Her nerves were a tight bundle of fear as she ran the CT scan, hooked her up to an IV, stared intently at Fareeha’s vitals.

The good news was, the scan showed the bleeding in her brain was minimal, and had stopped much earlier in the day. She needed rest, fluids, and pain medication, but should be fine once she had the chance to recover.

The bad news was, she might not make it that far once Angela was done with her.

Of course, that assumed Angela was present when she awoke, which was seeming more and more unlikely. It wasn’t mere fatigue. It was absolute exhaustion, the kind she usually only felt hunched over her desk working on the nanite project while days flew past.

The hospital shifts were more mentally draining than she expected, and it was having physical ramifications.

Fareeha was tucked in and cared for. She wouldn’t be collapsing alone anytime soon—and Angela was due to be back here soon enough. The decision wasn’t easy, but eventually, Angela wrenched herself from Fareeha’s bed.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, even though in Fareeha’s semi-comatose state, she certainly didn’t hear.

It made Angela feel better, anyway.

She headed for the door, but the moment she hit the hallway, she slammed straight into her attending. Where Reinhardt seemed like sunshine on a warm summer day, Doctor Reyes was chillier than a winter storm, and just as dark. He crossed his arms and glared down at her, even as her baseball cap slipped off, hanging by her ponytail.

Angela snatched it off her head and forced a smile. “Ah, Doctor. Hello.”

“Ziegler,” he intoned, dark eyes flicking to Fareeha’s room before boring into her soul again. A shiver crept up Angela’s spine, and she realized that she’d never been alone with Reyes until now.

She didn’t like it much.

“You’re off duty.”

She stiffened. “Y-yes. I, um… Fareeha is a family friend.” Lies, all lies. But at least it explained some of this away.

Reyes tilted his head. “Based on your encounter this morning, I doubt that.”

He was watching?

Angela forced a smile, but it was more pained now. “I hadn’t seen her in a while.”

“Mmm.” Reyes glanced again at the room, and Angela had to fight the urge to physically block him from entering. But he merely ghosted down the hallway, pausing only to call over his shoulder, “Check her insurance. It’s not going to cover the CT scan.”

Angela flinched.

Money was the _one_ thing Fareeha had worried about—but Angela couldn’t fret on it now. Considering the condition they found her in, there was no other choice.

Doctor Reyes vanished around the hallway, and the oppressive air surrounding him lightened considerably. Angela breathed a sigh of relief, peeked through the window to make sure Fareeha hadn’t awoken, and then, finally, trudged home.

* * *

They wouldn’t let her check out of the hospital.

Fareeha stared at the nurse in disbelief. “I need _who_ ’s signature?”

“Your guardian,” the nurse replied, slowly, nervously. “Captain Reinhardt?”

“Oh, for the love of—” Fareeha broke off into a string of very rude Arabic curses—which clearly made the nurse more uncomfortable. She wanted to feel bad, but this hospital was making her sweat, and every minute she spent here was another minute she couldn’t get to work. Inhaling through her nose, Fareeha asked, steadily, “I’m twenty-three. Does it say that on the paperwork? It should.”

The nurse flipped through the pages, then nodded. “It does, yes.”

“So explain to me, please, why I need a signature of someone who _isn’t related to me_ to go home?”

She didn’t seem to be able to, which told Fareeha this was some impressive bullshit, probably brought about to make Reinhardt go home before he sent the hospital to rubble with his ridiculous voice.

Nevertheless, the nurse finally said, “I’m afraid only your doctor can change these orders, Ms. Amari. They still have to advise you of the medical damage you might incur by straining yourself prematurely—”

“I’m damaged enough, trust me. One more day of work won’t change that.”

The nurse sighed. “I’ll just page Doctor Ziegler—”

“That’s not—” Fareeha’s heart seized, and she yanked aside the thin blanket. If she didn’t have an IV in her arm, she’d have already been down the hallway. “That’s not the blonde doctor, is it?” Her voice cracked a bit.

She’d pieced together enough of last night to know that someone was with Reinhardt in her apartment. Considering Fareeha kept her social circles embarrassingly small, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to discern who it was.

The nurse frowned. “I’m not sure. She’s new here.”

“Second day.” Fareeha couldn’t explain her sudden desire to avoid that cute doctor, except that she shouldn’t have implied she’d accept help and then _fled_. ( _Like a coward_ , she thought again.) But it was a doctor’s job to help—her nice offer hadn’t been personal. Suddenly embarrassed she was in this situation at all, Fareeha muttered, “Forget it. I’ll call Reinhardt.”

“Either way, the doctor still has to perform an discharge assessment.”

Which was how, before long and to Fareeha’s extreme displeasure, the short blonde doctor strolled through the door.

And shit, she was just as cute as she’d been yesterday. Fareeha’s face heated, and she was suddenly grateful for the colorful bruise swelling her left cheek. If someone told her a week ago she’d be fleeing someone who looked like _that_ , she’d have laughed herself stupid.

The doctor noticed none of this.

“I must have misheard,” Doctor Ziegler said, dismissing the nurse with a smile before turning a wrathful glower on Fareeha. “I _must_ have, because for a second, it sounded like they were paging me for a discharge assessment on someone I found half-dead last night.”

Yep. This was about what Fareeha expected.

Her head still throbbed, and her stomach churned unpleasantly, but the piercing migraine and absolute disorientation had vanished overnight. Her symptoms today were nothing concerning, but Fareeha couldn’t say that to a _doctor_ without sounding like a masochist.

So she went on the offensive.

“Look. If I wanted to spend the day in a hospital, I would have checked myself in yesterday morning.”

Ziegler’s eyes flashed, ice blue that somehow seemed hot as the base of a flame. “Now there’s an idea.”

It wasn’t going well.

Flustered, Fareeha set her jaw. “I didn’t, because I can handle myself. Okay?”

“Do you know what intracranial hematoma is?”

Fareeha took a cautious guess. “Bleeding in the brain?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Ziegler didn’t sound impressed. “If you know that, then you know can be fatal. Last night, it might have been.”

Fareeha felt like she should be more distressed by that, but all she truly thought was, _I’m going to kill Zaryanova._ Distracted as she was by imagining that moment, she missed Ziegler’s gaze shift to sympathy.

“I understand what’s happening here. Fareeha—this relationship of yours—it’s dangerous. If Reinhardt hadn’t intervened, I shudder to think—”

“Wait. What relationship?”

The way Ziegler looked at her, it made Fareeha feel like they’d only had half this conversation in English. She literally wracked her brain to make sure she hadn’t accidentally switched to Arabic—or that Ziegler hadn’t started talking in… well, German was a good bet, with a last name like that.

The doctor’s brow pinched just a bit. “Your relationship. Someone must have hit you.”

“Well, sure. That bitch Zaryanova.” Fareeha suddenly colored again—that was foul language to use in front of a medic. She hastily tried to breeze past it. “I mean, that’s what happens in the ring. Hitting. Kicking. General injury.”

It took Ziegler a few seconds to puzzle through that. “You’re a boxer?”

Fareeha snorted. When Ziegler quirked an eyebrow, she replied, “Something like that.”

“Oh. Well.” Maybe it was Fareeha’s imagination, but Ziegler’s cheeks seemed a shade or two darker than they’d been before. She busied herself by staring at Fareeha’s chart, then cleared her throat. “Regardless, I can’t advise you leave until we’ve had at least 24 full hours of observation.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Ziegler stiffened, and for a beat, silence lingered.

Maybe Zaryanova wasn’t the only bitch here.

Fareeha massaged her forehead with a hand. Her fingers brushed against the bruise, which flared in pain. She barely hid her wince as she said, “I’m sorry. I truly am. But clearly, I’m fine. My job, on the other hand, will not be, not if I don’t get over there soon.” No one thought to grab her cell before hauling her out her apartment door, which meant her boss literally had no idea where she was.

This week was going just great.

Doctor Ziegler sighed. “I implore you to reconsider.”

 _Implore_? Who talked like that?

And what’s more, Ziegler seemed genuinely upset about the idea of her leaving. Which meant the doctor _saw_ her in a way most—nearly all—of the world didn’t. It made Fareeha very, very uncomfortable.

If a spark of warmth flashed in her chest, she wrote it off as indigestion.

“Thank you for your help, Doctor.” Fareeha’s gaze softened. “Truly. I appreciate it.”

Doctor Ziegler bowed her head and signed the release forms.

And now, they would never see each other again.


	3. The Coffee Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela can't stop thinking about that strange patient. 
> 
> Turns out, Fareeha can't stop thinking about her cute doctor, either.

It lasted four weeks.

Four weeks, which—for Angela—passed at an agonizing rate. The first week, she convinced herself that woman, Fareeha, wasn’t as gorgeous as she remembered. And what kind of person chose to fight in a ring… for fun? The pacifist in Angela’s soul was strong-willed and determined: that woman was a spark, a crush, but nothing worth remembering now that she was gone.

The second week, she started driving through Fareeha’s neighborhood. To calm down, after all. She would never darken the woman’s doorstep without an invitation or the immediate threat of emergency… but the scenery here was quite lovely.

There was even a little coffee shop, cornering a quaint suburban street on the way to Fareeha’s apartment complex. Rustic décor and simplistic logo aside, Angela stopped short on seeing it was called The Daily Grind. For some reason, Angela figured Fareeha loved that. She seemed like the type.

She probably went there a lot. Angela could imagine her strolling into that café, plucking those aviators off her nose as she ordered a cup of… mmm. Probably something sweet, with a cold-and-stoic personality like that.

A horn honked behind her, and Angela hastily drove home.

Clearly the neighborhood was too dangerous. Too close to Fareeha. She blocked it from her mind.

Of course, before the week was up, she’d started revisiting Fareeha’s old hospital room, vaguely hoping she’d left something of worth. She’d sit on the green bench during breaks and eye the security cameras, wondering if the guards would give her a glance at the tapes. Just to verify that Fareeha was uglier than she remembered.

Just a crush.

But by week four, Angela’s barriers had crumbled. She still wouldn’t broach Fareeha’s apartment—avoided it like sneezing in a sickroom, actually—but she finally parked at The Daily Grind.

It was _so_ much better than the chain coffee shop next to the hospital.

And so became her routine… her _daily grind_ , if she dared to be silly. The café was about twenty minutes out of her way, but Angela existed at either her condo, or the hospital. Taking time for herself away from those places was something of a guilty pleasure.

And if she chose a corner seat near the wide windows and stared towards Fareeha’s apartment, well. She wasn’t over stepping boundaries. This café was a public place, after all.

It made her feel uneasy, almost unethical, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

It was on one such evening, thirty-two days after their first meeting that Angela’s gamble paid off.

Because Fareeha herself was strolling down the sidewalk.

Angela’s heart leapt into her chest, and she was instantly mortified. One meeting, one dramatic encounter, shouldn’t be enough to keep this crush going, to imagine what truly knowing this woman would be like. And yet—her throat closed up and she was suddenly frozen to her seat.

Fareeha wasn’t wearing casual clothes today. No, she was clad in what looked like a gray uniform with a utility belt at her hips. Her hair was pulled into a high, short ponytail, decorated only with two thin braids framing her temples. Her bruise looked better.

 _She_ looked better.

Angela suddenly dropped her gaze to her coffee, face heating. _What am I doing_? She thought angrily. This wasn’t sanctioned behavior for a doctor. This wasn’t even sanctioned behavior for a _human_.

She hunched further into herself. The ruse was up. Fareeha was alive and well, so there was no excuse of medical follow-up now. This was stalking, plain and simple, and Angela felt disgusting at her paper-thin willpower.

“Hey, hon, we’re closing up,” the barista called.

Angela stiffened. Of course they were. “A-Ah, okay!” Desperately, panicked, she glanced outside again to see if Fareeha had passed yet, if she could escape without being seen.

But Fareeha had paused nearly five metres past the shop and was now—clutching her side.

In pain.

Anger tightened Angela’s chest, and she was out the swinging glass door, stomping down the sidewalk before she knew it. “Ms. Amari,” she called sharply. “What’s wrong?”

Fareeha flinched, straightened hastily. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes widening at Angela. In her free hand was a disposable coffee cup, and her other arm now hung limply at her side.

But Angela knew what she’d seen. This woman, again, wasn’t taking care of herself—and nothing irritated Angela more than people ignoring their symptoms. “You’re hurt, aren’t you? From the fights.”

“Surprised to see you here, Doctor.” Fareeha glanced over her shoulder—not hard to do, considering their height difference—at the rustic café. “I didn’t realize The Daily Grind was near your side of town.”

It sounded innocent, genuinely confused, but her words were a bold reminder that Angela wasn’t hiding her interest well at all. In fact, she’d gone so far from “hiding” that she might as well be dancing in a field holding a lightning rod, waiting to be struck.

And worse, Fareeha had noticed. Of course she had; Angela possessed all the subtlety of a stampeding rhino when it came to medical issues.

And apparently crushes.

Her cheeks flushed, then, out of humiliation more than anything. She tried to lift her chin, sound dismissive, but her voice squeaked. “I like this coffee shop.”

“I do, too,” Fareeha replied, casually. “The name makes me laugh.”

It was happening. They were talking. And she’d been _right_ about the pun.

Angela’s heart fluttered.

“Then I’m surprised you went somewhere else tonight—” she cut off as Fareeha shifted her fingers around the cup in her own hands, just enough to reveal the label… of the coffee chain directly beside Angela’s very own hospital.

Silence.

Angela felt like she was being strangled. “D-Do you go there often?”

“Only recently.” Now Fareeha looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight.

But of course, that only aggravated whatever injury she’d had. She hissed, wrapping her arm around her ribs again, then froze as she seemed to realize that she’d confirmed Angela’s accusations.

Too late to lie now.

“It’s fine,” Fareeha said instead, too quickly. “Not a concussion this time.”

“It’s still something,” Angela insisted, stepping closer. “Lift your shirt. Let me take a look.”

To her, it was a simple order from doctor to patient—but to Fareeha, it was clearly much more. She colored deep red and backed up, clearing her throat. “I promise, it’s fine. No internal bleeding.”

“You can’t possibly know that.” Angela frowned.

“I know that if I _wanted_ a doctor to look, I’d—” and Fareeha cut herself off, squeezing her eyes shut.

Oh.

Angela took the hint. Cute coffee shop coincidence aside, she was clearly overstepping boundaries, oh, all over the place. Irritated at her own behavior, Angela forced herself out of doctor mode—if that even existed in her mind, because who was she without her MD?—and offered a pained smile.

“I see. I apologize for insisting.”

“No, I—”

“Please,” Angela silenced Fareeha with a hand. Her eyes flickered to the coffee cup in Fareeha’s fingers, feeling that connection slip away from them too. She drew a slow breath through her nose, forced herself to smile before she turned around. “Be well, Ms. Amari.”

She made it three steps before Fareeha’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “W-Wait.”

Angela stopped, heart thudding.

Fareeha hung her head. “I can’t—afford to keep going to the hospital. The bill from my last stay was more than I make all month.”

Angela’s eyes dropped to the woman’s uniform, something she’d essentially ignored until now. She thought Fareeha was a professional boxer, but… but that didn’t make sense. Boxing rings must have their own doctors on staff.

“You’re… not a boxer,” Angela said, slowly.

“Ah, no.”

“Detective?” She took a guess based off the utility belt: at Fareeha’s left hip was a baton and… a taser? On the right was a radio. Angela thought law enforcement was a good bet.

But Fareeha’s gaze dropped to the sidewalk. Her voice was flat and uninflected. “Security guard… at the credit union down the street. Not as fancy as being a doctor, but… it’s a living. I guess.”

Her tone hurt Angela’s heart. Not defensive—just… disconnected. Angela had always had a passion for her work, and it was obvious Fareeha didn’t gain either happiness or great financial benefit from hers.

She tried to think about what she knew of security guards, but the only thing she could settle on was: “Is it dangerous?”

Fareeha blinked. “It’s boring, mostly.”

Things weren’t adding up in Angela’s brain. She opened her mouth to ask _where_ Fareeha got injured, then, but didn’t get very far before Fareeha drew a slow breath.

“But that’s… that’s why I didn’t go to the hospital today. Or before.” She took a sip of her coffee, staring down at the lid as she admitted, “It wasn’t you. I promise.” Now her fingers tightened around the cup, bending the cardboard sleeve just a little.

Angela’s mouth was dry. “If money was an issue, you had only to tell me.”

“I _did_ tell you.”

Oh. Guilt struck Angela like a hot iron rod to the face, and she smoothed her expression before it could belay her horror. A moment passed while her determination solidified, and then she offered, “I’ll pay the bill.”

Fareeha chuckled.

Angela didn’t laugh with her.

Fareeha quirked an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”

The doctor’s finances weren’t great either, not with the debt from medical school. But she brought in a good salary and lived well below her means, and her prospects were only improving with every day of experience.

So Angela nodded, stubbornness raising her chin again. “I don’t lie, Ms. Amari.”

The title seemed to make her cringe. “Ms. Amari was my mother. Call me Fareeha.” Then, aghast, “I don’t even know your first name, Doctor.”

“Angela,” she replied, too fast.

Fareeha tasted the word: “Angela. That’s fitting.”

She loved how her name sounded on this woman’s lips. Angela held out a hand. “Give me the bill, Fareeha. It’s my fault you’re in this mess.”

“Your fault?” Now Fareeha laughed, a bold, booming sound that implied she spent far too much time with her neighbor. The motion jostled her obvious wound, and she coughed a bit, hunching over her left side as she continued chuckling. “ _Your_ fault? Doctor—Angela—I’m the one who squared off in the cage.”

Cage.

Angela felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean?”

Now Fareeha cleared her throat. “Ah, nothing. Nothing.”

“Cage fighting? _That’s_ what you’re doing?”

“It’s fine—”

“It most certainly is not,” Angela snapped. “That is dangerous and irresponsible, and—and—” Her heart pounded, but not from early-crush flutters now. Now, it was hot and heavy anger. “And you could be killed! That’s a reckless excuse for a hobby.”

Fareeha went still, taking a step back. Her expression had smoothed again, and she carefully, pointedly, tossed her coffee cup into the nearby garbage. It bounced off the rim and landed perfectly inside, and Angela couldn’t help but think there was a metaphor in there somewhere.

“What I do with my time is my choice, _Doctor_ ,” Fareeha replied, icily. “And I’ll ask you not to speak that way to me again.”

Angela’s face flushed. She couldn’t think past her outrage. “If you insist on continuing, then I can’t make that promise.”

Fareeha’s expression darkened further, making her look tense and dangerous. For a brief moment, Angela felt a flash of fear—a deep concern that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t know this woman as well as she’d hoped.

 _But of course you don’t, Ziegler,_ her mind muttered. _Stick to your nanites and your hospital and leave random patients alone._

Luckily, Fareeha seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

“I didn’t ask for your intervention, Doctor Ziegler,” she replied steadily.

Somehow, even angry, she kept her voice calm and level. It was a skill Angela herself didn’t seem to possess.

“You didn’t have to. Intervening is my _job_. I’ll always help people.”

“Some people are beyond help,” Fareeha stated simply. Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and stomped towards her apartment building.

Angela, shaking in fury, didn’t bother to follow.


	4. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distraught over their argument, Fareeha makes a stupid move--and pays dearly for it. Luckily, Angela is there to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals a LOT with Fareeha's low self-worth, so brace yourself. 
> 
> But don't worry, cause Angela's around to make things better... eventually. >.>

Fareeha didn’t go home. Instead, she stomped through the downtown streets, nearly vibrating from emotion. A bystander might view it as fury, anger at Angela and her _absolute audacity_. But that was merely a tiny flame in an inferno of self-loathing.

 _Some people are beyond help_.

What _was_ that? Fareeha almost wanted to laugh, but it’d be a hollow, desolate sound. That had sounded so dramatic in the heat of the moment, but upon reflection, Fareeha was mortified. It was like she’d been an angsty teenager, bemoaning the world’s hardships because it was easier than facing them.

 _The world is a shit show._ _Get over it_.

Instead of accepting that The Doctor—as she’d come to be known in Fareeha’s mind, and now she hastily corrected— _Angela_ —might be genuinely concerned about her wellbeing… might even feel the same flutters Fareeha did whenever they were together… instead of validating all of that, Fareeha latched onto the disapproval.

Her hobby was stupid. Fareeha knew that, because she _wasn’t_ stupid.

But Ana hadn’t approved either—and now Ana was dead, and no one could stop her.

Not even Angela The Cute Doctor.

Side aching, Fareeha slammed her fist against a metal door, the _clang clang clang_ ringing through the night. It was a bit early for the good fights—even Zaryanova didn’t stomp into the cage until midnight—but Fareeha was itching to punch something, and all the better if she made some money while she did.

The door swung open, and a burly man stared down at her. He was a nameless thug in a sea of nameless thugs, and all she had to say was, “Pharah reporting,” and he stepped aside.

She shoved past him, injury twinging again as she descended into the depths. The fights took place in an underground warehouse. Gamblers could find an entrance through the bar overhead, but anyone fighting came the back way, down a dark, concrete staircase that backed directly into a long hallway of rooms—like dressing rooms for a performance, but with more blood and animosity.

A few fighters leered at Fareeha as she strolled past, making a point to keep her gaze as steady as possible. Smell blood, and they’d swarm, even outside of the ring.

Pharah’s reputation preceded her.

A newbie got too close, and Fareeha’s gaze turned absolutely acidic. “Stand back.”

He narrowed his eyes, but dutifully removed himself from her proximity. Fareeha scowled again and shoved past the door at the end of the hall—the door into Maximilien’s den. The founder of these nasty events was perched behind a long, expensive desk. A huge bank of windows were framed on his left, one-way glass offering pristine viewing into the cage below. It was empty, but the stands were filling.

The omnic cast an unfeeling red stare her way. She stared back. Perched in four different points of the room, more nameless bodyguards straightened, anticipating violence.

Smart.

Fareeha straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready to fight.”

“You fought yesterday,” Maximilien said, his metallic voice ringing through the concrete room. He glanced again at the papers in front of him, making a few quiet annotations to one glowing page. “The audience was excited to see you back after such a long break. But if you give them too much, you’ll lose hype.”

Lose money, he meant—because Pharah never lost. And winners got boring.

Fareeha set her jaw. “I’ll turn the tides.”

Maybe it was the humiliation of her conversation with Angela, the hot and mortifying terror still coursing through her veins. Maybe she’d knocked something loose in that concussion. Or maybe, just maybe, she wanted to feel the pain she’d doled out earlier.

Regardless, she regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

Pharah didn’t _throw_ fights.

Maximilien lifted his gaze again, cold and stoic. His three piece suit was shockingly formal for the oppressive underground atmosphere, but the omnic prioritized appearances almost as much as he prioritized money. For a long moment, they stared at each other while waited for her to back out.

She didn’t. Fareeha never went back on her word.

“First match, then,” he finally said. One of his goons opened a subtle door near the windows. “You’re fighting Doomfist.”

Fareeha went ice-cold.

“What about Zarya?” she demanded.

“Zaryanova understands the benefit of leaving an audience wanting more,” Maximilien replied. He steepled his fingers. “Of course, your new tactic will work too. By tomorrow, we’ll both be very rich.”

Or very dead.

Fareeha forced a smile and walked into a losing fight.

* * *

Angela squinted angrily through the microscope, poking a thin scrape of skin with a long needle. The dead tissue should be repairing itself. If everything was correct, it should be regenerating on a cellular level—and yet, all she saw were millions of her nanites bustling around the sample with _no effect_.

And it was frustrating the hell out of her.

Her apartment was bright around her, windows revealing a gorgeous morning that Angela was stalwartly ignoring. She’d planned to spend her rare day off at The Daily Grind, flipping through a medical textbook while subtly watching for Fareeha—but _that_ plan had blown to hell after last night’s argument.

Instead, she holed herself up with too much hot chocolate, and the hours whittled away while she cursed at an inanimate object.

These nanobiotics had the power to heal everything, to change the future of medicine, if it would _work properly_. Her eyes flicked to two computer screens stacked nearby, to the soft white code scrolling along a black background. Everything had been double- and triple-checked in the years she trudged through med school, with experts in every avenue of coding she could find. There couldn’t be any errors.

And yet, the nanites she’d injected were… utterly useless, honestly. They couldn’t seem to identify the dead cells from the living ones, much less repair them properly.

Angela growled and violently pushed back her chair.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.

“Well, you should have thought of _that_ before making Fareeha look like a fool,” Angela snapped to the air. Her heart shriveled at the words, and guilt thrummed in her tightening chest. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms and stared blearily at the ceiling.

“Should have thought about it,” she mumbled.

It was a dealbreaker.

Choosing violence for fun? Purposefully seeking out aggressive interactions that left her concussed, staggering, alone? Angela wasn’t a psychiatrist, but even she could recognize the hints of past trauma there. And she didn’t condone violence, optional or not.

It _should_ have been a dealbreaker.

And yet, her mind continued to be pulled back to Fareeha—back to the hurt in her dark eyes as Angela mocked her hobby, back to the humiliation when she admitted she couldn’t pay.

She couldn’t change the past, but damn it, Angela wished she could try.

Abandoning the useless nanites, she stomped to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. But for all her preaching to her patients to eat well, stay healthy, her fridge was shockingly bare. She parsed through it and found a single apple; that would have to be enough today. She was too busy to grab takeout.

She rinsed the apple, then wrapped it in a paper towel and shuffled back to the desk. It didn’t make sense. The coding was correct, and she knew the signal was broadcasting. Why weren’t the nanites able to identify the proper fix here?

Angela gnawed on the sweet crisp of the apple, inhaling slowly. This wasn’t going to work. No wonder everyone thought she was insane.

… Well, not everyone.

Her mind flashed back to Fareeha’s flat tone: “ _Not as fancy as being a doctor, but—_ ”

Angela’s chest warmed a bit, and her heart whispered, _She thinks being a doctor is fancy. She’s impressed by you._

“Maybe before, but not now,” Angela muttered to herself.

The apartment, sparsely decorated and utterly cold, was silent in its reply.

She should apologize. Angela had been in the wrong, judging a person solely on one single extracurricular. For all she knew, Fareeha spent her free afternoons… saving children… or something, before tromping off to the—the cage.

Angela shuddered, thinking of Fareeha squaring off against violent opponents. Other than Reinhardt, did anyone worry for her?

Well… against her better judgment, Angela did.

Her eyes flicked to the nanite project, to the papers spread about her office. Before, she’d have buried herself in research, reading voraciously to discover where she’d gone wrong. Breakthroughs didn’t happen overnight, after all.

Today, though… her mind wasn’t here. And it wouldn’t be, not until she tracked Fareeha down and apologized. She kept remembering that coffee cup bouncing off the rim of the trash can.

Acquaintances vanished from each others’ lives all the time… but friendships only formed when one of them took a leap.

So, Angela tossed her half-eaten apple in the trash, donned her jacket, and leapt.

Of course, she’d barely driven by Fareeha’s block before hearing the cop car. It wailed, speeding past her with flashing blue lights, careening right towards The Daily Grind. For a moment, Angela wondered if the barista who’d been serving her was okay, a girl barely older than eighteen. So, ever the first responder, she spun her car in that direction.

Probably it was nothing. A domestic dispute, maybe, or a false alarm. But if it _was_ an injury—a car crash, a shootout, something—they might need a doctor.

And yes, maybe Angela was procrastinating… just a bit.

She careened onto the scene shortly after the cop car, parking her car haphazardly—illegally—near the sidewalk. The area was mostly empty. Cautiously, Angela peered through her windshield for any sign of a patient in need, but all she saw was a bit of blood splattered on the sidewalk. Two cops had responded, one kneeling next to the crimson stain while the other talked with the visibly shaken barista.

Angela climbed out of her car. Working in the ER had made her bold, and she approached the barista without restraint.

The officer bristled as she got closer. “This isn’t a public matter, ma’am.”

“I’m a doctor,” Angela replied, flashing her credentials. She never left home without them. “And Megan is clearly not well.”

She’d nailed the barista’s name, because the younger girl, Megan, glanced at her with grateful eyes.

And then she said the three words Angela never hoped to hear.

“It was Fareeha.”

Angela’s eyes flicked to the blood. It wasn’t much, but that wouldn’t matter if the woman had been steadily bleeding over hours.

She swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. “What?”

“I saw you talking to her last night. Did—did she seem okay to you? She usually buys a mocha a few times a week, but she hasn’t been around for a while. And then—” Megan broke off, staring desperately down the street. “—she came in and told me to—to tell _you_ that she ‘needed help.’”

“She asked for me specifically?” Angela replied, unconsciously holding her breath.

“I tried to stop her,” Megan said, clenching her eyes shut. “She looked like she needed a hospital, but… she ran.” Now she turned to the officers. “Her name is Fareeha. I don’t—know her last name. But I think she’s in really big trouble.”

Angela felt faint.

The officer was looking at Angela, frowning. “Does that name ring a bell?”

But the doctor’s brain was traveling a mile a minute. She wanted— _needed_ —to see Fareeha. The emotional side of her screamed to enlist the cavalry, to bring cops and paramedics straight to the stubborn woman’s doorstep.

Logic stopped her short, because the cavalry cost _money_.

Ambulance drives alone could bankrupt a person in her situation, especially one already reeling from a prior hospitalization fee. And the police had protocols; they wouldn’t give Fareeha a choice about where she was taken.

She was clearly well enough to find Megan, ask for help.

Ask for _Angela’s_ help.

Which meant she trusted Angela, at least to some extent.

And now that Angela had a modicum of her trust, she didn’t plan to lose it. Because logically, _logically_ , she could keep a patient more stable than any paramedic—and she had a functioning vehicle to drive her to better care if needed.

So when the officer asked that question, Angela’s brain slammed into hyperdrive, and after a very reasonable moment to consider… she lied.

“I’m afraid I’ve only met her in passing. But if she’s that injured, she couldn’t have gone far. Perhaps a search of the neighborhood?” She instilled the right amount of urgency in her voice, then squeezed Megan’s shoulder. “I won’t stop until I find her, all right? Don’t worry.”

Megan nodded, visibly relieved.

The cop nodded and turned to his partner. “Start canvassing. I’ll get her statement.”

“I’ll help,” Angela replied, and slipped back into her car before anyone could protest.

And the second she was _certain_ the officer had headed in the other direction, Angela sped straight to Fareeha’s apartment.

* * *

_Stupid, stupid moron. You goddamn piece of shit. What in the world were you thinking?_

The insults ran in a numb loop through Fareeha’s mind as she staggered through her front door, gasping for breath. Even inhaling shallowly left her shuddering in pain. Every muscle in her lower body ached, and intense bruises had blossomed wherever Doomfist’s legendary punches connected.

He’d definitely broken a few ribs—whichever ones were left that Zaryanova _hadn’t_ injured the night earlier.

Two fights in two nights. Even Fareeha knew that was absurd.

Her whole body trembled as she closed the front door, softly, gently, in case Reinhardt was watching through his peephole again. It wasn’t a concussion; she’d remembered to protect the face this time, at least. But her physical state was concerning enough that he’d yank her straight back to that hospital.

It wasn’t even the _money_ that stopped her this time. Maximilien was correct; they’d both made a killing. After all, no one bet _against_ Pharah. Her loss echoed through the underworld—not that she’d been conscious to see it firsthand. All she remembered was Doomfist’s smirk as they hauled her limp, sluggish body out of the ring.

Maximilien let her sleep in the back rooms, and handed her a fat envelope on the way out. More than enough to pay off her last hospital visit.

But the second she’d started the long walk home, Fareeha realized this wasn’t a simple beating. Every single bruise felt like a hot poker made itself comfy against her skin—and her entire body seemed like bruises. Zaryanova had already cracked a rib or two earlier, and Doomfist definitely wasn’t kind to the area. Every breath sent spikes of pain directly up her spine, and shallow breathing made her feel like there wasn’t enough air. He’d slammed her against the cage, too, and once or twice a wound split open. Sluggish blood felt cold against her back, dripping off her right shoulder.

Oh, and her wrist was definitely broken. 

Dimly, she considered taking a rideshare, but—but she couldn’t get blood over someone’s car. So, she walked. She was honestly amazed no one stopped her, but by the time she staggered past The Daily Grind, Fareeha knew without a doubt she needed help.

Even just to reach the bottle of Advil.

Everything in her screamed that it wasn’t Angela’s problem, but—but Reinhardt had firefighters counting on him. Lives at stake. He couldn’t pause his career to check her injuries again and again, even though she knew he would.

He did the same thing for her mother, after all.

Angela had lives to save too, but…

But.

Fareeha had fucked everything over by fleeing her hospital and nearly dying alone in her apartment. Angela had been… well, her guardian angel. And then—the coffee shop coincidence.

Maybe she felt the same magnetic pull Fareeha had.

Well, before Fareeha went and fucked it up, anyway.

She gasped for breath again, staring at the rustic café across the street. She could go home—but bruises, aches like this? They only got worse. What would happen if she couldn’t even stand tomorrow? And her wrist wouldn’t just magically fix itself.

Her mind scoffed, telling her it was stupid. Angela was a doctor—she had a life. If Fareeha wanted medical help, she should go to the hospital.

But Fareeha didn’t want _medical_ help.

She wanted a friend.

Hot tears pricked her eyes at that thought. She hadn’t needed anyone, not since her mother went to work that fateful Tuesday and never came home. Reinhardt was the most conversation she’d entertained in six years.

And then, Angela—this glimmer of light, this bright soul who _saw_ her. And more importantly, cared. Cared so vividly she bothered to track a random person down just to make sure she was okay.

Twice.

Fareeha’s vision was darkening around the corners, exhaustion at the walk from Maximilien’s warehouse threatening to drown her. She truly didn’t have much time. Without thinking about how it’d affect the barista, Megan, or the other unlucky patrons, Fareeha stumbled into The Daily Grind.

Gasped her message.

And fled—like the coward she was.

If Angela Ziegler was meant to help, she’d find Fareeha at home.

And if they truly were two passing souls… then Fareeha would suffer alone, recover alone, just like she deserved.

****

Of course, whoever was watching out for her had different plans, because not thirty minutes of agony passed before someone slammed a fist on her door.

Fareeha was used to Reinhardt beating the wood, his meaty hand making the entire building shake. She felt bad for his downstairs neighbors, honestly. Still, this—wasn’t that. This was almost a dainty sound, although they probably didn’t mean it that way.

Fareeha’s heart leapt into her throat, but she smashed the hope down just as fast. It fluttered in her chest, warm and bright words wondering, _is that Angela?_ To truly drown them, she latched onto one of her thousands of aches, using the visceral pain to remind herself that she wasn’t the main character of a cheesy romance movie.

She was a two-bit security guard, a moonlighting cage fighter, and a goddamn coward, and people like her didn’t get those happy endings.

Probably, it was the police.

And considering Fareeha was currently immobile on her couch and hadn’t been able to do more than inhale shallow, shaky breaths for the last half hour, she wasn’t in a rush to answer.

At least, not until a harried female voice filtered through the wood. “Fareeha? Open the door.”

It sounded a whole lot less like a request, a whole lot more like, _do it, or I’ll kill you before your injuries have the chance_.

So Angela had received Megan’s message. And alarmingly fast, it seemed.

Well. This was what Fareeha wanted, wasn’t it?

Of course, now that the reality of Angela’s presence was bearing down on her, Fareeha felt like she was drowning in fear. It spiked in her chest, hot and alarming, and she cursed her past self. _Asking for help_? What was she thinking? The only thing that culminated from this was razor-sharp words, a rough hand, and possible manhandling back to the cold, clinical ER.

“Fareeha?” Angela’s voice sounded increasingly panicked now.

“One sec,” Fareeha called against her better judgment.

Against _all_ judgment.

The woman on her stoop went silent, and Fareeha had no choice but to push herself off the couch. Instantly, she regretted it. Even the thirty minute break had stiffened her muscles and demolished her willpower. She wanted to sink into a hot bath—if she hadn’t thought she’d fall unconscious and drown, she’d have already tried that.

But what was life if not powering through pain? Fareeha ground her teeth, biting so hard her temples throbbed, and tried to let the other aches wash away.

It didn’t work like that, obviously. Everything _screamed_ as she staggered to the front door. Five steps, and she felt like she was dying.

 _Good thing the doctor is here_ , she thought, halfway delirious with pain.

She fumbled with the lock for a minute, and the second it unlatched, Angela pushed the door open for her. Fareeha barely had time to stumble out of the way before the petite blonde barreled into her apartment.

Of course, the motion tipped her off-balance, and to her horror, Fareeha couldn’t position her feet fast enough to catch herself.

“ _Scheisse_ —” Quick as a whip, something thumped to the ground—a medical bag, Fareeha noted dimly—and then Angela’s arms were around her waist, holding her arm, steadying her.

But she’d accidentally grabbed inches from Fareeha’s broken wrist, and the pain that shot through her bones literally made the entire world go white. She must have yelped, must have recoiled, because Angela let go like she’d been burned.

 _This’s going great_ , Fareeha thought distantly, so drugged by the pain that even her _thoughts_ were slurring.

She lurched to the couch, barely managing to coordinate a landing position before her senses abandoned her completely, and the world went blank for a little bit.

It wasn’t a concussion, but _damn_.

Awareness returned in slow increments—first, the furious sound of foreign cursing. The spongy cushion under her shoulders and ass. The tightness in her chest that made it feel like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _breathe_. Fareeha tried to gasp, but it was cut off with a strangling choke of pain and panic.

Not good. Definitely not good.

And then, a gentle hand fluttered over her cheek, moving swiftly to her arms, her broken wrist, lifting her shirt to feel her stomach. A sharp inhale of air—enough that humiliation flooded Fareeha’s distant senses.

She should have done this alone. Angela didn’t deserve this.

Self-loathing made her squeeze her eyes shut, attempt dimly to wave the doctor away. “It’s fine,” she mumbled. “Y-You can leave.”

It sounded garbled, even to her addled mind.

“This will pinch,” Angela said in response.

The words took a moment to penetrate the fog. Fareeha finally wrestled open her eyes, her swimming vision centering on the doctor’s bright blue eyes. Angela was staring intently at something in her hands—flicking a tube with a long needle at the end.

Fareeha blinked at it, uncomprehending. “What?”

The doctor plunged the needle into her arm.

It definitely pinched—and then, just as fast, darkness consumed everything.


	5. The Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela fixes Fareeha up, but demands some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trucking right along with this fic. Is it longer than I expected? Hell yes it is. Do I regret it? Nope. >.>

Angela worked in furious silence.

Wait. Furious wasn’t even the right word. _Livid_. That was more accurate. Absolute, mind-numbing outrage for the woman under her hands, the woman mottled with black and blue bruises that obviously went deeper than skin and muscle. She’d been beaten to a pulp—and there was no doubt in Angela’s mind: she _chose_ it.

Angela was going to fix her up…

And leave forever.

This—this masochistic behavior belied deep-seated emotional trauma, and until that was addressed, it wouldn’t matter how many times Angela fixed her up. Fareeha was damaged, clearly trying to hurt as much outside as she did within, and witty puns and a charming smile couldn’t fix the years of therapy she’d need to address this.

Angela cursed in six languages, making solid plans about how she’d stabilize Fareeha, stick around to see her out of the medically-induced coma, and then stroll home and wipe the last month from her mind.

Yeah.

She eased Fareeha’s unconscious form to the ground for easier access, shoving a stained wooden coffee table to the far edge of the living room and spreading medical supplies across the dark blue rug. If she squinted, she could see drops of blood in the carpet, and only found a little relief that they’d been wet under her gloved finger.

Of course, as fresh gloves feathered over bruises, fingers swiftly stitching closed the gashes on her shoulder and back, slipping pain medicine into her system via a portable IV, setting and binding her wrist and performing an extensive check for other broken bones, Angela knew her earlier thoughts were a lie.

She couldn’t leave someone in pain.

And after the disoriented way Fareeha had tried to swat Angela’s hands off her stomach, after her face colored with apparent humiliation, after she mumbled, _it’s fine, you can leave_ , Angela wasn’t sure she wanted leave Fareeha at all.

There was something raw in the woman’s gaze that had stopped Angela short. And now, as the outrage dissipated and cold anger remained, Angela was pulled back to that moment.

Back to the pained look in Fareeha’s gorgeous, dark eyes as she told Angela, “ _you can leave_ ,” a look that had nothing to do with her physical wounds and _everything_ to do with her self-worth.

She didn’t think anyone would stay.

Angela’s eyes flicked to the folded flag, the one displayed on a bookshelf, half hidden behind a pair of dumbbells. She’d noticed it the first time she’d visited, but hadn’t had the time to contemplate it then. Still, amidst a dispassionate apartment of workout equipment, a well-loved (or well-hated) sandbag, and an ancient television, the flag was strangely personal and full of implications.

Angela sighed, returning her gaze to her work. She’d worried about internal bleeding, especially with obviously-broken ribs, but the state of these bruises suggested the injuries weren’t exactly fresh.

A twinge of guilt tweaked her chest, because Fareeha definitely hadn’t had this many bruises during their fight—which meant it had to have happened directly afterwards. And yet, Angela had taken enough psychology courses to know that while her words might have been a catalyst, nothing she said could control another adult’s actions.

It stemmed the guilt, but only a little.

Fareeha’s breathing had quieted, calmed. With some trauma patients, their panic was almost as dangerous as their injuries. Fareeha’s lungs probably ached, especially with the broken ribs—Angela suspected three, but it was hard to know without an x-ray. And when someone was already hurting, it was easy to spiral because air seemed sparse.

Fareeha’s wrist had been a nasty surprise, though. She’d released a strangled sound when Angela tried to steady her, and Angela realized too late her hand had been cradled against her chest. Now it was bound in tight, stiff wraps and a splint, the best she could do without a cast.

And the rest—Angela’s heart throbbed, imagining Fareeha enduring these fights. Her body showed a history of this kind of abuse, although nothing that seemed to encroach on her childhood. Hard to know for sure, though.

Well. At the very least, Fareeha wouldn’t be back in the ring for a while, not with her wrist and ribs in this state.

The thought probably shouldn’t have showered Angela in relief, but it did.

Two hours later, Angela had fixed everything she could. It was midday, a bright morning leading into a slightly cloudy afternoon, and she vaguely wondered if she should call the barista, Megan, and inform her that Fareeha was alive.

Or possibly the police, if they’d bothered to search further.

She couldn’t bring herself to bother.

Instead, she tucked a pillow under Fareeha’s head, smoothing her short hair off her face. The bruise on her cheek was nearly gone, and she seemed to have taken care to protect her head, if nothing else. Her rich skin and unique tattoo drew Angela’s attention immediately, and her eyes followed the swirl of the Horus shape, to the curve of her cheekbone, to the woman’s lips.

For a brief, traitorous moment, she wondered what it’d be like to kiss Fareeha.

Irritation welled within her—this was a _patient_ —and Angela wrenched herself away. She carefully covered Fareeha with a blanket, packed up her unused supplies and disposed of the rest, then settled into a nearby armchair to wait.

The afternoon inched forward at a crawl, and angry storm clouds were darkening the horizon when Fareeha finally stirred.

Angela lifted her eyes from the book she’d plucked from Fareeha’s sparse bookshelf. It was a slightly raunchy romance novel, true trash, and Angela hastily shut it before the woman could notice.

“Fareeha?”

The woman in question moaned, and after a long moment, pried open her eyes. She stared at her ceiling fan, and Angela waited while she oriented herself. There was no panic to this portion, at least—Angela knew how to keep patients calm.

She also knew how bewildering it was, coming out of sedation.

Fareeha’s aches seemed to come back all at once, despite the heavy doses of pain medication Angela had given. She inhaled sharply, then winced, screwing her eyes shut. Her head tilted back on the pillow, in clear need of a distraction. After a moment’s consideration, Angela pressed her fingers to Fareeha’s shoulder, a comforting pressure.

“It’s okay. Everything is fine.”

Nothing was fine, but Fareeha didn’t have to know that.

The woman glanced at Angela then—and instead of relaxing, she tensed further. “You’re still here.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

Angela pressed her lips together. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t leave someone in pain just because they ask.”

“That’s because you’re amazing,” Fareeha replied woozily.

She was drugged. Angela had to remind herself that she was _drugged_. It didn’t stop her heart from fluttering at the words, or the deep blush that heated her cheeks.

And worse, Fareeha smirked.

She’d _seen_.

Angela fumbled for a reply— _something witty, say something witty_ —but it was too late. Fareeha groaned, pushing the conversation forward before either of them could dwell on that comment. “How bad is it?”

“Well, if there was internal bleeding, you wouldn’t have survived long enough to see me,” Angela replied curtly. Her bedside manner only extended so far on her days off, apparently. “So, that’s something.”

Fareeha chuckled, trying to push herself into a sitting position. It was far too much, and she slumped back against the pillow with a deep-seated groan. “ _Ya ibn el sharmouta_ , this hurts. Am—am I on the floor?”

“Temporarily,” Angela replied. “I needed room to work.”

“I should order a gurney.”

“Don’t— _joke_ about that.”

Fareeha swallowed, eyes downcast. “Sorry. You don’t have to—I mean, I can handle things from here. I mostly needed—” she lifted her arm from underneath the blanket, trembling with the effort, long enough to see that her wrist had been splinted, “—right. How… um, how much do I owe you?”

“Stop,” Angela said, pinching the bridge of her nose to quell the rising anger.

“What?”

“ _Stop_. Stop pretending like I’m just some doctor making a house call.”

Her next words would make or break this moment, and Angela knew it. She could imagine Fareeha quirking an eyebrow, imagine her saying, “ _Aren’t you_?” And Angela knew, without a doubt, if she did—Angela would leave, and to hell with this woman and her horrid habits.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, tears pricked Fareeha’s eyes, and she whispered, “Oh.” And in that moment, the stubborn, shameless woman dissolved into a lonely, desperate soul. Her words trembled, and she lifted her lashes to meet Angela’s gaze. “I don’t—know how to thank you.”

Angela’s icy anger melted.

Fareeha needed help, yes, but… Angela couldn’t seem to back away from someone willing to accept it.

“Just answer one question?”

Fareeha’s brow furrowed, looking now like a bird trapped in a cage. But she cautiously replied, “Yes?”

Angela inhaled slowly, rocking back on her heels. “Why did you return to those fights last night?” Then, quieter, “Was it because of what I said?”

“No,” Fareeha replied, fast and vehement. “No, Angela, it wasn’t because of you. _Allaena,_ I am so sorry if you thought that. I went because—” now her passion petered off, and she hesitated. “Because—”

Angela waited, mouth dry.

Fareeha clenched her eyes shut, like it was easier to say to the back of her eyelids than Angela’s curious stare. “Because I messed up so badly. And… whenever I feel like that, it’s easier to—to forget for a while.”

Oh.

Angela shoved her growing horror into a box deep in her mind; she couldn’t let it infect her tone and make Fareeha feel worse. Instead, she asked slowly, curiously, “How did you mess up?”

“Inconveniencing you and… and Reinhardt. Fighting even though I know it’s dangerous. And… losing my temper with you last night.”

Her voice was so raw it made Angela want to cry. Cautiously, she reached out to Fareeha forehead, gently moving a strand of hair behind her ear. She waited to see if that was okay, but Fareeha’s whole body seemed to relax at the soft touch.

This poor woman.

Angela chuckled, an affectionate sound that surprised even her. “If last night was you ‘losing your temper,’ it’s no wonder these fights are causing you such harm.”

Fareeha’s eyes wrenched open. “Was—that a dig?” And she started to laugh. The motion clearly aggravated her ribs, because she coughed then, gasping between wheezing chuckles. “Stop—stop, I think you’re going to k-kill me.”

Angela found herself grinning. “What a shame for your opponents.”

Fareeha succumbed to another round of gasping laughs.

Against her better judgment, Angela’s heart swelled into something dangerously warm, and she felt herself falling.

* * *

For Fareeha, the night was a hazy blur. She vaguely remembered a momentous conversation—had a nightmare about calling Angela “ _amazing_ ” right to her face—and then everything flashed to the doctor’s strong grip under her arm, somehow simultaneously dwarfed by Fareeha’s aching body and acting as a pillar of strength while they hobbled to Fareeha’s bedroom. Gentle hands eased her onto the mattress, and the rest of the night faded into a push-pull of pain.

Angela was still in the apartment when she awoke. To say Fareeha was shocked was a massive understatement.

It was dark outside, early enough that no normal person should be awake. Fareeha first noted the soft light of her bedside lamp, and then a pinch in the crook of her right arm. She wrenched her eyes open in time to see Angela carefully removing the needle.

“You’d be a great serial killer,” Fareeha said, groggily.

Angela snorted, a very unladylike sound. She always seemed so composed, so fantastic, that the simple noise humanized her. Angela pressed a cotton ball into her arm and folded it up against Fareeha’s chest, seemingly oblivious to how Fareeha’s heart thumped at her proximity.

“Hold that there. If I were a serial killer, you’d have made it shockingly easy on me yesterday. Now, the pain medicine should last you throughout the day, but you’ll be groggy. You have supplies here, correct?”

Fareeha barely heard her shift into doctor mode, still reeling from the fact that they’d just had a weird form of witty banter. Part of her brain thought it felt familiar, like maybe she’d laughed last night too, but—but the details of that conversation were gone.

She was sorely disappointed to realize it.

“Fareeha.”

“What?” She reoriented herself, realizing too late that Angela’s brow had knitted together in concern. Desperate to reassure her, she added, “Sorry, I was—” _Distracted by your amusing conversation and gorgeous looks?_ Fareeha’s cheeks colored. “—still waking up.”

Angela smiled. “Well, you can go back to sleep. In fact, I want you resting all day today. Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied numbly. Her brain finally caught up to Angela’s earlier remark. “Ah, what supplies are you talking about?”

“Food, mostly. You absolutely cannot drive on this medication. Or try… anything else.” She left that part vague, but her blue eyes turned sharp and threatening.

Fareeha swallowed. “Ah, I don’t have a car, so check on the first one. And they won’t take me back in the arena for a while.” Now she hefted her bound wrist, which felt like a brick at the end of her arm. She forced a smirk. “Not that Doomfist wouldn’t love to see me like this.”

It was gallows humor, and Angela clearly didn’t find it funny. She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded once. “All right. Be well, Fareeha.”

Panic.

“Y-You’re leaving?”

“Of course. I have a shift at the hospital.” She sighed, massaging her eyes for a minute. “Twelve hours, with possible overtime. But that injection should keep the worst of your pain at bay. If you need to supplement, you’re allowed two Advil—no more. Understand?”

Fareeha nodded, even though the way she felt, she truly didn’t even know if she could stand long enough to get to the kitchen. Her body was heavy as a stone on the mattress, anchoring her in her misery.

Angela was leaving. Of course she was; this was a temporary arrangement at best.

“Can—Can I give you my phone number?” Fareeha blurted.

Angela quirked a delicate eyebrow. “Of course. How else will I check in throughout the day?”

The relief was crippling. Not leaving for good. Just leaving for now. Fareeha fumbled for her phone, which Angela must have placed on her bedside table at some point last night. She unlocked it, handed it to the doctor, and watched with rapt attention as the blonde swiftly entered her number, then sent a text. A soft _ding_ chimed in the other room.

“If I don’t hear from you by 4pm, I’m going to assume something’s wrong,” Angela warned.

Fareeha was so giddy about getting the cute doctor’s number that she barely comprehended it. By the time she nodded, Angela was already steps from exiting the room, medical bag in hand.

“Rest well, _mein schatz_.”

And she was gone.

It wasn’t until Fareeha had nearly succumbed to the medicine’s lull that she vaguely wondered what _schatz_ meant in German. But by the time everything faded, it was too late to remember it.

* * *

Angela blushed all the way to the hospital.

What in the actual world was she thinking? Binding Fareeha’s wounds was her duty as a doctor. Staying the night was merely good medical practice. But this morning, with Fareeha groggy with sleep and so surprised Angela stayed—she couldn’t help it. Her heart swelled with the same happiness from last night, and she let the two words slip.

_Mein schatz._

My darling.

Angela moaned, swinging into a parking spot at the hospital before dropping her forehead to the steering wheel. The _only_ saving grace was that Fareeha probably didn’t speak German, and that she was so near sleep she might forget Angela said the word entirely.

Angela prayed that was the case, because the alternative was too humiliating to bear.

She hauled herself out of the car, swallowing a yawn. Her stomach grumbled, dissatisfied as always with one apple in the last twenty-four hours. Exhaustion weighed every inch of her body; she’d tried to sleep, but Fareeha’s couch was a lumpy monstrosity, and Angela wasn’t about to intrude on a sick patient in bed. The alternative was the armchair, which had a certain heft to it, but didn’t contribute to any kind of quality sleep.

Eventually, Angela stopped trying, instead reading more of the trashy romance novel to distract herself from the absolute knowledge that her crush was sleeping one room over.

It didn’t help. If anything, it might have made matters worse.

Well. Nothing she could do about it now. She wasn’t about to leave a patient in Fareeha’s condition unsupervised for the first twenty-four hours of injury, even if she only discovered her halfway through that window. Angela would check in tonight, then head home and try to grab some sleep before her next shift.

Power through. That was something she’d learned very well in med school.

She wore her smile throughout the day, flitting from bedside to bedside, completing rounds and answering questions and saving lives… and losing lives. The hours blurred, interrupted only by a midday text from Fareeha:

_Up and eating, doctor._

And a picture of a round pastry cup. Angela couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked sweet and not at all nutritious.

She couldn’t keep from smiling as she texted back: _That’s not what I meant._

Fareeha replied only with a winking face emoji, and Angela was smirking right up until she saw Doctor Reyes scowling at her across the room. She hastily pocketed her phone and returned to her rounds.

By the time her shift inched to a close, Angela could barely keep her eyes open. Part of her considered grabbing a nap in the break room, since she didn’t feel very safe behind the wheel like this, especially in the dead of night. But when she headed in that direction, she was intercepted by Doctor Reyes himself.

He appeared like a specter in front of her, stilling her with one look.

She forced a smile. “Ah, Doctor. Is there something I can help you with?”

He appraised her from head to toe, and her skin crawled. She instinctually looked around to see if they were alone—but no, the nursing station was right there, and two other women had their heads buried in their work.

Not that two doctors talking in a hospital corridor would raise suspicion.

“You seem tired today,” Reyes said, his eyes dark as night and just as unsettling.

She stiffened. “I suppose my day off was a little too exciting. Had a difficult time sleeping last night.” _Not that it’s any of your business, doctor._

His lips thinned, almost like he heard her thoughts. “You’re a bright intern, Doctor Ziegler. Easily the best in our recent bunch.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. It almost sounded like he was picking a pig for slaughter.

“Ah, thank you,” she said.

“But even a bright resident seems to forget that exhaustion is akin to alcohol in how it limits your mental acuity,” Reyes’s voice was a deep grumble, and his eyes narrowed. “You were slowing down today with your patients, and made a critical error with Hernandez.”

For a brief second, fear flashed, hot and bright. Errors in a hospital meant _deaths_ —and Hernandez hadn’t survived. She wracked her brain, but he’d died from an aneurism; by the time he’d arrived in the ambulance, it was already too late.

She crossed her arms, infuriated Reyes would imply that might be her fault. “I followed every procedure to the letter, and you didn’t have anything to say when you double-checked his charts.” She didn’t outright say Reyes was lying, but it was heavily implied. She was too tired for this shit. Lifting her chin, she added, “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I haven’t dismissed you yet,” he snapped, and she stilled.

The nurses from the station glanced their way. Angela’s expression hardened. “I am off the clock, Doctor. If you insist on keeping me longer, you’ll have to discuss it with the chief of medicine. Enjoy your evening.”

Bolstering her courage, she stepped around him.

She half-expected him to grab her arm, but—he let her go.

She nearly ran back to the car, and only remembered after the fact that she hadn’t planned to drive in this state. And yet, adrenaline thrummed in her system, and she _couldn’t_ stay in this hospital knowing he prowled the hallways. Breath hitching in anger and fear, Angela lurched her car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot.


	6. The Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha finally gets to turn the tables when Angela shows up to her apartment exhausted and starving.

She’d found the trashy romance novels.

Fareeha stared in mild amusement at the bookshelf, at the clearly-read novel shoved haphazardly in a spot it definitely wasn’t before. In all honesty, she expected Angela had kept herself busy last night, but she’d assumed the doctor would hone onto the engineering textbooks on the bottom shelf.

Clearly, even a doctor needed to unwind.

Fareeha’s eyes skimmed past her mother’s flag, and in a moment of weakness, she reached out and brushed the glass protecting the trifold icon. She still remembered her mother’s squad crowding around her, somber policemen tipping their hats and telling her what an _amazing captain_ Ana had been.

Eighteen-year-old Fareeha didn’t care that her mother had been so great at her job. Maybe if she’d been great at being a mother, Fareeha wouldn’t be living alone, scraping for money, banned from the one career she truly wanted.

Fareeha set her jaw and shoved down years-old anger. Instead, she left the flag in place and hobbled to the couch, where she’d dropped her cell phone. Her eyes flicked to it again, and then to the darkening sky outside. Angry clouds had formed on the horizon again this morning, and it had been sprinkling all day. The roiling black masses threatened something more sinister tonight.

She hoped Angela got home okay.

For a moment, her fingers hovered over the keypad, nearly drafting out a text. But—at the last second, she deleted it.

Angela had already shown so much kindness. Fareeha wouldn’t disturb the doctor again unless it was an emergency. So she put the phone down, trying to decide how to spend her evening.

Fareeha’s entire body throbbed, but she’d slept through the day and felt strong enough to walk afterwards. Her muscles were incredibly stiff, so she fell into the decades-old routine of stretching and light exercise to loosen up.

The exercise didn’t go so well, but Fareeha knew broken ribs were a bitch. She settled into gingerly pacing the apartment, attempting to loosen her muscles before another round of dead-to-the-world sleep.

What she didn’t expect was a soft knock at the door.

Fareeha glanced over, so fast her neck cricked. She winched, rubbing the spot with her good hand. Company? That definitely wasn’t Reinhardt, and no one else visited, so—her heart leapt into her throat. Maybe Angela?

Fareeha hobbled to the door, opening it to reveal the doctor in question.

And wow, she looked… absolutely terrible. She was dripping wet, for one—the rain had definitely started again—and her white coat was creating a puddle at her feet. She shivered in the chill of the air, blinking heavily. Black bags smudged her eyes, pulling lines of absolute exhaustion across her face.

Angela smiled, seemingly distracted. “Ah, good. You should be resting, but it’s good to see you’re able to walk.”

Fareeha stared at her, blurting, “ _I_ should be resting?” before she could stop herself.

It seemed to perk Angela up a bit. She pulled back her shoulders in stubborn determination, which was almost comical when she looked like a drowning cat. “Yes. You, the person who—” she stopped short, glanced over her shoulder at Reinhardt’s door, and then ventured, “May I come in?”

Numbly, Fareeha stepped aside and shut the door behind her. The evening chill had _her_ shivering, and she wasn’t the one wearing a wet lab coat. “You should get out of those clothes.”

“It’s fine. I won’t be staying long.”

Fareeha nodded, already feeling crushed at that statement. But the sheer fact that Angela visited at all was more than Fareeha expected. It was fine. It was enough.

Angela set her medical bag on the coffee table and pointed at the couch. “If you please?”

Fareeha sat obediently.

“Did you eat anything in addition to that pastry?” Angela asked, slipping on a stethoscope and tugging out a blood pressure cuff.

“Ah, yeah. Leftover kibbeh.”

Angela stared at her blankly.

Fareeha flashed back to cold winter nights with her mother, back to her warm laughter and even warmer meals. Against her better judgment, longing wrenched Fareeha’s heart. “It’s… it’s like pot pie meatballs. Kind of.” Not really, but good enough.

“A hearty meal. Excellent.” Angela busied herself with taking Fareeha’s vitals, coaxing the woman to lean forward so she could listen to her lungs.

Fareeha, meanwhile, busied herself with studying Angela. The doctor’s posture was slumped, and her eyes were rimmed in red, almost like she’d been crying. Concern flared in Fareeha’s chest, hot and sudden, and before she could stop herself, she asked, “Are you all right?”

Angela stilled, the stethoscope still pressed against Fareeha’s back. She was close enough Fareeha could smell her, a faint scent of lavender nearly drowning in sweat and cleaning chemicals. Her fingers were cold against Fareeha’s skin, and… they were shaking around the stethoscope’s metal drum.

From the chill—or something else?

“Of course. I’m fine.”

She said it with the same tone Fareeha had used days earlier, when she’d been confronted outside The Daily Grind. Except this line seemed more raw, more anguished.

Fareeha’s gaze hardened. “What happened?”

Angela pulled back, and Fareeha wasn’t surprised to see tears brimming in her eyes. She was obviously exhausted, and something—or someone—had pushed her to the brink. Fareeha could only pray it wasn’t _her_.

Then Angela said, “Just—it’s fine. It’s just a doctor at the hospital,” and Fareeha thought, _that’s almost worse._

“What happened?” she asked again.

Angela sniffled, seemingly frustrated at the tears. She wiped them almost violently with a wet sleeve, then shook her head and forced a smile. “It’s nothing. Inhale and hold, please.”

Fareeha’s heart must be beating faster now, because even _she_ could hear it. Instead of obeying, she bristled. “That’s not nothing, Angela. If he’s making you uncomfortable—”

“Fareeha.”

Silence.

Fareeha probably should have been a little embarrassed, but all she truly felt was hot anger. Her mind flashed back to Doomfist, smirking as he tossed her around the cage. She’d _let_ that happen. But if Angela was facing a similarly predatory person, she might not have the capabilities to fight back.

It scared Fareeha half to death, thinking about it.

And yet, a clear boundary had been drawn, and Fareeha wasn’t about to cross it without permission. So she sat in fuming silence while Angela performed her tests, then stepped back and dug through her bag for a tiny vial.

“I don’t want more medicine,” Fareeha said, an afterthought.

Angela glanced at her, lips pursed. “I’m afraid you don’t comprehend how necessary this is for someone in your state.” She brandished the brown vial. “Your body needs time to heal, and it’s harder when you’re writhing in pain.”

Fareeha winced at the image. “I’m good with pain. I’m—not great with the fog that comes with pain medicine.” Today had been fine; she’d texted her job yesterday and taken an abrupt vacation, and sleeping for an afternoon was truly a luxury. But she was already getting antsy.

And she’d seen enough people succumb to addiction with those meds that the very idea of becoming reliant on it scared the shit out of her.

Better to wallow in pain. Pain meant she was _alive_.

Angela’s tired gaze shifted into disapproval, but she reluctantly put the medicine away. “That’s your choice. I’ll ask you start regular doses of Advil, then, every six hours as recommended. If you miss a dose, it’ll be hard to stay on top of it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fareeha said automatically.

Angela clipped her bag shut. “Well, that’s all for now, then. You’re recovering well; just take more rest as needed. No strenuous activity.”

She pushed upright—and, in horrifyingly slow motion, seemed to fall into a faint. Her eyelids fluttered, and she nearly tipped over.

Fareeha barely lunged for her shoulder in time to steady her, and the sharp movement had her body screaming in protest. But fear crushed it down deep, and she held Angela like her life depended on it.

To her credit, Angela seemed just as perplexed. She moaned softly, pressing a palm to her forehead. “Ah, apologies.”

“ _Apologies?_ Angela, what’s wrong?” Fareeha had an iron grip on the doctor’s shoulder, and loosened only as an afterthought, in case her hold was literally bruising. Her lab coat was damp from the rain, and still cold.

“Nothing.” It’d be a lot more convincing if Angela didn’t sound hazy. She blinked hard a few times and forced a smile, finally meeting Fareeha’s gaze. “Nothing, Fareeha. I promise it’s fine. Just—just lightheaded.”

“Did that doctor hurt you?” Fareeha would kill him.

But Angela merely chuckled, carefully extracting herself from Fareeha’s grasp and proximity. She straightened, collecting herself for a moment before pushing wet hair out of her eyes.

“No, no. I just need rest. Maybe food.”

 _Maybe_ food?

Fareeha pushed to her feet too, following Angela to the front door, standing a little too close in case the doctor tipped over again. “Have you slept at all since last night? Or did you just read that romance novel instead?”

The accusation pinned Angela to the spot, and her ears tipped red. “I didn’t—”

“I saw you’d moved it.”

“Oh.” Silence, then a heavy sigh. “I might have spent more time reading than sleeping last night. I plan to make it up tonight, once I’m home.”

The idea of Angela getting behind the wheel in this state made Fareeha ice cold. Outside, thunder boomed, and rain began pounding the glass windows. Probably, Angela didn’t live far. Probably, she’d be fine.

But what if she wasn’t?

Fareeha’s decision was swift and permanent. “You’re absolutely _not_ leaving. You’ll sleep here tonight.”

Angela paused at the door, glancing at Fareeha over her shoulder. She seemed almost incredulous. “I’m sorry?”

Fareeha’s eyes narrowed. “It’s dangerous. You could slide off the road. You’re in no state to drive.”

The doctor sighed. “I can call a rideshare—”

“You won’t find one in this weather,” Fareeha gestured at the windows, at the darkness beyond. It was late, and this kind of storm was too nasty for most people. She swallowed, softening her tone. “Please. _Please_ stay. If something happened to you tonight, I—” now Fareeha cut herself off, realigning to something less desperate. “Listen. You can take the bed and get some real rest. You need it.”

“I can’t take your bed, Fareeha. You’re injured.”

“And you’re exhausted because—” _because you’ve been so busy helping me_ , she thought, devastation lancing through her veins. She couldn’t hide the strangled tone of her voice. “Please, Angela. Just—let me help, okay? Just this once?” Carefully, cautiously, Fareeha reached out and lifted the weight of the medical bag in Angela’s fingers.

A pause.

Then—

“That’s my line,” Angela said distantly, and she released the bag to Fareeha’s grasp.

It was as bold a success as Fareeha had felt in years. She basked in the triumph of keeping this woman close, safe. The once menacing storm became a gentle ambiance, a lovely juxtaposition between the cold, cruel outdoors and the warmth blossoming inside her tiny apartment.

Fareeha gently encouraged Angela out of her wet lab coat, hanging it by the door before guiding the doctor to the couch’s cushions. Happiness bloomed in Fareeha’s chest as fond memories of her childhood emerged. Her mother used to be like this, sometimes: so caught up in healing, in helping, that she forgot to care for herself. And suddenly, Fareeha was a preteen again, coaxing Ana to bed after a long shift.

But Ana refused to sleep before they shared a warm meal together, one she taught Fareeha to make side by side the moment Fareeha was old enough to see over the kitchen counter.

“Do you want some baked kibbeh?” It sounded abrupt, even to Fareeha, but she set her jaw and pretended like she wasn’t embarrassed.

Angela, who looked thoroughly dazed at the recent turn of events, tried to protest. “No, I can’t eat your food—”

Alarm bells went off in Fareeha’s mind. Wow, even _that_ was familiar. She crossed her arms.

“When did you eat last?”

The fact that Angela had to _think_ about it made Fareeha groan.

“ _Alqarf_ , Angela. Shit. Aren’t you the doctor here?” Fareeha rolled her eyes and left Angela spluttering on the couch, hobbling to the kitchen. Her ribs screamed as she reached for the food, but she hadn’t lied before. She was good at ignoring pain, at steadying her breathing enough to power through it.

And something about taking care of someone else made her feel fantastic, _needed_ in a way she hadn’t been for… well, a long time.

She checked on Angela a few times, but the doctor had leaned against the thick pillows on the couch and was dozing in minutes.

_Safe to drive home, my ass._

Thunder rumbled outside as Fareeha carried a steaming plate of angular balls to the coffee table, relishing in the scent of spices and pine nuts that saturated the air. Her fingers itched to feather through Angela’s soft blonde hair, but instead Fareeha brushed her shoulder. The doctor stirred, blinking blearily at the food.

“What is it?”

Fareeha settled into the nearby armchair with a groan. The pain was definitely throbbing more now, but she wasn’t going to miss this moment for the world. “I told you; comfort food. Lamb.” A thought. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” How _stupid_ that she didn’t think to ask that.

“I’m not.” Angela looked abashed now. “I tried. About four years ago. Keeping the nutritional value without meat is… remarkably difficult.”

“Especially the way you eat—which is to say, not at all.” Fareeha rolled her eyes, nodding towards the plate.

Angela pressed her lips in a thin line, but with an exasperated sigh, took a bite. Chewed. Fareeha found herself leaning forward before realizing how _creepy_ that was and leaning way back instead, to the point of near absurdity.

Angela didn’t seem to notice. A slow, happy moan escaped her lips, and then she was taking another bite, and another, barely pausing for breath.

Satisfaction made Fareeha almost unbearable, even to herself. Her words were dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe food, huh?”

Angela shot her a look that could peel paint.

It dissolved quickly as she scarfed down a second kibbeh, then a third. “This is incredible,” she said between bites. Her energy seemed to have returned tenfold, something that pleased Fareeha to no end. “Where did you get this recipe?”

“Ah, it is—was—my mother’s favorite.”

Angela paused, eyes flicking to the folded flag on the bookshelf. “Military?”

“Police,” Fareeha murmured. It shouldn’t ache, a wound as old as that, but somehow it was more painful than all her bruises combined. Angela waited, but Fareeha didn’t offer more information.

She wasn’t sure she could, honestly.

“I’m sorry.” Angela’s eyes dropped to the plate, and then she admitted, “I lost my parents at a very young age. I couldn’t help them, but—well. I can help plenty of people now.”

Fareeha felt that all too well. Instead of sadness at her mother’s legacy, bitterness filled her soul. Because _she’d_ wanted to help people, too. And now—thanks to Ana’s influence, even from the grave—Fareeha was left patrolling an anonymous credit union and fighting for scraps under a money-grubbing omnic’s crimson gaze.

What an honorable living.

Fareeha pushed to her feet, swallowing a hiss of pain. “Keep eating. I’ll—ah, change the sheets. Set out some dry pajamas for you.”

It wasn’t until much, much later, when Angela was snoring softly in the bedroom and Fareeha was pressed against the couch cushions listening to rain beating the windows, that she realized she’d completely forgotten to acknowledge Angela’s admission.

Probably too late now.

Glaring at her mother’s flag, Fareeha rolled over and closed her eyes. 

* * *

The next morning, Angela awoke feeling more rested than she’d been in weeks. A quick check at the clock proved she’d crashed for almost twelve hours, and her phone’s alarm was blaring. Nearly time to report to the hospital. Angela cursed herself, because she’d _meant_ to make time for breakfast, but—

—But Fareeha’s bed was incredibly comfortable, warm as the hug of a good friend, and it smelled clean, like laundry detergent with her unique scent of dust and oranges and the barest hint of vanilla.

… Not that Angela had been paying attention.

She miserably wondered what it’d be like to just… skip the hospital. Ignore the twelve hour shift with creepy Reyes prowling the hallways, and just exist in this bed for another few hours. Maybe have brunch with Fareeha. Coffee from The Daily Grind. The fantasy filled her head, and she sighed wistfully.

But someone—Fareeha—was already banging around in the kitchen, so she’d clearly stayed asleep too long. Regretfully, Angela hauled herself out of bed, stretched, and padded into the living room, tying her blonde hair into a messy bun as she walked.

Fareeha paused at the stove and did a literal double-take.

Angela’s cheeks warmed. “Ah, yes?” Fareeha _did_ remember she’d invited Angela to spend the night, correct? Suddenly, the doctor doubted everything.

But Fareeha just stammered a reply, “Oh. Um, y-you look nice. In that.” Angela glanced down to the pajamas Fareeha had lent her: a pair of plaid pants and a loose-fitting tank top. She quirked an eyebrow as Fareeha coughed, stiffly nodded her head towards the couch. “I’m making breakfast. And I washed your scrubs. I hope that’s okay.”

Angela was too busy squinting at her, and almost didn’t hear. She was standing, which—frankly, was impressive. She seemed to have incredible control over her body, but Angela was expecting a bit of regret this morning at refusing the pain meds.

“Angela?”

“How in the world did you manage to do laundry with a splinted wrist?” Angela asked, incredulous. She’d had to take over changing the sheets last night—watching Fareeha try _that_ one-handed had been almost absurd.

Now Fareeha chuckled, and— _there_ , a wince. So she was hurting. But she just flipped the eggs with a swish of the frying pan and moved right along. “I mean, a lab coat and a pair of scrubs aren’t exactly four weeks of clothes, you know? Easy to grab one by one.”

“Well, I truly appreciate it,” Angela said, gratitude swelling in her chest. It was a simple pleasure, wearing clean clothes to work, but one that seemed momentous this morning. She nodded at the pan. “And I’m glad to see you’re making yourself a healthy breakfast.”

Fareeha paused. “This, um… this is your breakfast, Doctor.”

It shouldn’t have hit Angela like a brick, but somehow, it did. After last night, after watching Fareeha basking in her compliments, it wasn’t a surprise the woman found happiness cooking for others.

Angela had just… never had anyone care enough to cook for _her_ , before. Not since her parents.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Oh.”

“Is that okay?” Fareeha’s shoulders slumped, like all her energy had vanished. “You don’t like eggs, do you? I have more kibbeh—it won’t take long to heat up.”

“No, no. I love eggs,” Angela resisted the urge to hug Fareeha, resisted the urge to do anything but smile. “This is incredibly kind. I’m not sure I’ll have time—” She had enough, but she truly wanted Fareeha to eat first. _She_ was the injured one, after all.

Her plans were foiled when Fareeha flipped the gas stove off, then slid the eggs onto a plate. “They’re done, look.” At Angela’s doubtful glance, the Fareeha from last night reappeared full-swing. “You can’t take care of others if you aren’t taking care of yourself, Angela.”

“I could say the same to you,” Angela primly took the eggs, but her brow furrowed at the sweat she’d just noticed beading on Fareeha’s brow. She was hurting a lot more than she let on.

And yet, all she offered was a shrug. “Plenty of time for that once you head to work.”

Angela had dealt with difficult patients enough to know deflection tactics. She narrowed her eyes, even as Fareeha presented her with a fork.

“How is your pain today?”

“Come on, sit down,” Fareeha commented, gesturing towards the living room. Her dining nook was the proud owner of a rack of weights and a work-out mat, so apparently the coffee table was all they had to work with.

Angela obeyed only to get Fareeha following her. She pointedly didn’t eat until Fareeha had eased—gingerly, too gingerly—into the armchair. Her face seemed pale, eyes pinched with pain.

“Fareeha.”

No more deflections.

The woman sighed, and her breath hitched. She closed her eyes for a moment against the pain, then forced a smile. “I mean, day two’s always a bitch.” A pause, a flash of panic. “Ah, sorry. I’m sure you don’t—”

“Curse?” Angela chuckled. “Oh, I’ve been known to swear with the best of them after a few drinks.”

“Oh, really?”

“It’s beside the point.” Angela took a large bite of the eggs, peeking at her watch as she chewed and swallowed. Still enough time. “The pain will only get worse from here. But you know that, don’t you?”

Fareeha looked away.

Angela laid down the fork, brow knitting together. “Fareeha, my heart aches to think of the hurt you’ve suffered throughout your life. But this time, this once, you don’t have to suffer. I can treat the pain.”

“Pain means I’m alive,” she said, somewhat robotically.

“Pain is your body’s way of begging you to slow down,” Angela replied. When Fareeha didn’t answer, she sighed. “Just—think about it.”

Silence.

She finished her eggs, and when Fareeha moved to push out of her chair, Angela pressed a hand to her shoulder. “I truly appreciate your help, Fareeha. Making me breakfast was very kind. I can handle things from here.” Without giving the woman a choice, she washed the plate and cleaned the dishes.

Fareeha was still sitting stiffly when she reemerged from the bedroom, folded pajamas in hand. Angela set them on the stackable washer, then slipped on her now-dry lab coat. “It’s another twelve hour shift today, but I’ll stop by tonight to check on you.”

She’d barely shouldered her medical bag before Fareeha asked, “Wait.”

Angela glanced over her shoulder, suddenly hopeful.

Fareeha swallowed, like the words were stuck in her throat. Finally, she whispered, “Do you think I could have more of that medicine? Just—just to make sure I can sleep today?”

Angela’s heart soared.

“Of course, _mein_ —” she cut herself off seconds before letting the second word slip, and hastily added, “ _freundin_.”

My friend.

There. That was appropriate. Right?

Angela hoped Fareeha couldn’t hear her heart thumping as she administered another dose of pain relief. She smiled warmly at this woman—her new friend—before sweeping out the door and driving to the hospital in a daze.


	7. Gabriel Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha doesn't hear from Angela, and it sparks concern. Turns out, it was rightfully placed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I slowed down on this fic because... plots.... vanished..... 
> 
> So I'm gonna switch gears juuuust a tad here, and add an actual villain. Turns out heroes are just twiddling their thumbs without one. >.> Anyway, Reyes was convenient, so expect him to be a larger focus of Angela's plot from now on. 
> 
> Apologies if anyone's OOC. I'm just working with what these characters are giving me in this AU. LOL.

Angela had seen right through her, and Fareeha still wasn’t quite sure how that happened. Because the doctor had been right— _everything_ hurt when she woke up, and it was only thanks to years of discipline that Fareeha had managed to pull herself off the couch at all.

Well, discipline, and knowing Angela would worry if she was immobile and—how did she put it? _Writhing in pain_? It wasn’t far off, honestly.

Fareeha had distracted herself with starting the dryer, then cooking, but her grandiose plans for a gourmet breakfast were absolutely ruined by her throbbing ribs. Every breath was like a spike in her lungs, every lance of pain sent a wave of heat washing down her spine. She’d only barely gotten her gasping under control when she heard Angela’s alarm. Only barely slid on her mask to impress the woman she was falling _hard_ for.

It didn’t matter. Angela had seen—and she called her out.

And then… she let her be.

That, honestly, was why Fareeha took Angela up on the next dose of painkiller. Her mother used to fight her, force her, berate her with words or that _look_ until Fareeha hung her head in submission and took her medicine. She said it was protection, but Fareeha always resented her independence and control being yanked away.

Angela didn’t do that.

“ _You don’t have to suffer_ ,” was all she said. And Fareeha believed her.

Now, another long round of sleep, the fog of the medicine faded and Fareeha’s body was finally starting to feel—well, not back to normal, but on an upwards swing.

She left a message on Reinhardt’s phone, knowing from personal experience that the burly man would be pounding on her door if she didn’t check in semi-regularly. She paid her hospital bill. Ate a hearty dinner, stretched a bit, read some engineering books and brainstormed a flight suit Reinhardt’s firefighters could use to enter buildings from the second or third floor. They rarely got past the design phase, but it was fun to experiment.

And finally, the clock ticked to the end of Angela’s shift, and Fareeha put all of her work aside and began cooking another hot meal. This time, her body ached, but she wasn’t shaking with effort like before. Already getting better, even if the bones took longer to heal.

She finished grilling a turkey melt, proudly set it on a plate in the oven’s warming drawer. If Fareeha had her way, Angela would never scare her like last night again.

Of course, that only mattered if Angela _showed up_.

And as the hours ticked by, that seemed more and more unlikely.

By the time midnight rolled around, Fareeha had downed two more Advil and was pacing the apartment like a caged lioness. She glanced again at her phone, waiting for an update from Angela— _anything_ to prove this was a misunderstanding.

Silence.

And Fareeha didn’t do well with silence.

Sick to her gut, she ordered a rideshare before she could question herself—and traipsed to the hospital.

Probably, Angela was fine. Probably, she hadn’t gotten into a car accident on her way over, or collapsed from exhaustion at work. Probably, she’d just decided that since Fareeha had the medicine this morning, she wouldn’t need any more follow-up.

Maybe she never would.

It was _that_ thought that propelled Fareeha to the hospital, if she was being honest. Now that she had Angela Ziegler in her life, she had no intention of losing her again.

The rideshare dropped her off at the ER, and Fareeha had to pretend she wasn’t staggering from broken ribs and the beating of a lifetime. She strolled up to the front desk and offered a smile. “Ah, I’m here for Doctor Ziegler. One of your interns?”

The guy raised an eyebrow. For a moment, she wondered, paralyzed, if this was the same nurse who’d seen her walk in—and out—a month ago. But, no, he didn’t seem to recognize her. “If you’d like to request a specific doctor, you should know we’re on a wait right now.”

Fareeha frowned. “No, I mean—” a pause, then a huff. And a lie. “I’m her girlfriend. Her shift ended three hours ago and I haven’t heard from her.”

The nurse just quirked an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I’m worried,” Fareeha gritted out. Her ribs were aching again, and her wrist splint was barely hidden by her long sleeves. When his eyes flicked down towards it, she shoved her hand inside the cavernous sweatshirt pocket. “Can you just check to see if she’s working late?”

He narrowed his eyes. “We can’t give information on specific doctors.”

“Is she _in the hospital_?”

The nurse set his jaw.

Fareeha sensed she was very close to being tossed out of this ER. She growled in irritation and snapped, “Fine. Forget it.” And stomped outside. The evening air was crisp and damp with humidity. She eased onto the green bench near the entrance and pinched her brow.

This was getting ridiculous.

Angela never asked her to check up. She certainly never implied Fareeha should follow her to her place of work. Honestly, it was probably good that nurse wasn’t divulging information. This was _probably_ one big misunderstanding, and Fareeha had just saved herself a lot of embarrassment.

But she couldn’t seem to wrench herself off the bench and sulk home. Her gut was rarely wrong—and she’d felt nauseated since she set foot on the hospital’s grounds.

So, almost numb, Fareeha hobbled away from the ER’s entrance, around the dumpsters where she’d hid from Angela last month, and aimed for a side entrance that seemed relatively unstaffed. If they wouldn’t answer her questions, she’d go looking herself.

And she’d barely reached for the handle when she heard a scream.

Instantly, every sense was _alive_. Someone needed help, and Fareeha would never, ever ignore that. Electricity spiked through her veins, alighting her mind with hyper-focused awareness. The scream came from the nearby parking garage, and Fareeha was sprinting up the concrete staircase before she could comprehend it.

The cars were few and far between, and she instantly honed onto the scuffle. A dark figure was backing a smaller form against a white car.

Was that Angela’s car?

His hand grabbed the woman’s arm, wrenching her closer to him. And then—

“Hey!” Fareeha shouted, deep and vicious. Her broken bones faded to the background as her senses aligned to one goal: protect the innocent. Like a panther on the hunt, she stalked across the parking garage, finally close enough to see a flash of blonde hair.

It truly was Angela. And that made this _so much worse_.

A hot wave of fury washed over Fareeha as she recognized fear in Angela’s blue eyes. She was several inches shorter than her attacker, and when she tried to wrench her arm away, the man held on fast. He’d frozen when Fareeha shouted, but didn’t back away from the car. Away from Angela.

In fact, he tried to move in front of her like… like he was protecting her.

Or _hiding_ her.

 _Too late,_ Fareeha thought darkly.

He was wearing a white lab coat, a matching badge like Angela’s—except his proudly displayed the name: Doctor Gabriel Reyes. Fareeha was close enough to read it, close enough now to see the nervous sweat on his brow. Angela’s breath hitched as Fareeha stopped short.

The bastard set his jaw. “This doesn’t concern—”

Fareeha slammed her good fist into his nose.

He positively _howled_ in pain, as satisfying as any sound she’d heard in the ring. And unlike her typical opponents, this one clearly couldn’t take a punch; he staggered away, folding like wet paper.

How typical. Reyes clearly never expected any kind of true fight from his victims. Of course he didn’t; if he thought Angela would break his nose, he would have preyed on someone else.

“Angela, stay behind me.” Fareeha physically moved between the two of them. Her heart was positively thrumming with the thrill of a fight—and even better that there was a true purpose to this one.

The money she earned in the cage was weak motivation in comparison.

Angela was trembling, the white pallor of her face evident even from this angle—but Fareeha didn’t have time to give her a true once-over. The doctor, Reyes, was straightening, his eyes streaming, blood dripping from a clearly-broken nose.

Fareeha’s knuckles smarted a bit. She shook out her good hand and slid into a loose, ready stance. Her broken wrist throbbed, and her lungs burned from running up the stairs, but adrenaline made those things easy to forget.

Her world narrowed to one purpose: protect Angela at all costs.

“You will regret that.” Reyes’s voice was dark and dangerous. He’d recovered enough to calm his voice, although he couldn’t mask his unsteady breathing.

Fareeha felt herself fading to the background, felt her fighting persona—Pharah—stepping into the light. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, flashing with the promise of a beating he might not recover from, her words slipping through gritted teeth. “Oh, I don’t think I will.”

Pharah was a bit of an asshole, to be honest. Part of Fareeha was embarrassed Angela was seeing that side of her, but no one could argue that _I’m going to kill you_ appearance didn’t intimidate people.

Reyes looked uneasy now.

Fareeha stepped into his space. Predators expected their victims to step back, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“You have two choices, Reyes. You can walk into your own ER and get that nose bandaged… or I’ll give you two black eyes to go with it.”

The promise rang between them.

Reyes’s eyes flicked to Angela. Fareeha tensed. If Reyes lunged for Angela, Fareeha knew exactly how she’d place her feet to intervene. If he tried to throw a punch, she played out her responding steps, how she’d duck around his fist and entice him further from Angela’s car. If he managed to knock her off her feet, her brain had already decided what she’d shout to Angela.

Hint: it was basically, _get in the car and drive._

Angela probably wouldn’t listen, but at least Fareeha would have tried.

None of those things happened, though. Instead, after a long moment where Fareeha’s threat hung between them, Reyes turned on his heel and stalked away.

Down the ramp of the parking garage, fading out of sight.

Fareeha glared after him, pulled taut as a bowstring before an archery contest—which was absolutely why she flinched when Angela put a hand on her shoulder, directing her towards the car.

“Fareeha. Come on.” She unlocked the vehicle—it hadn’t even been _unlocked_ before now? What would have happened if Fareeha hadn’t shown up?—and hurried to the driver’s side.

Fareeha eased into the passenger side, swallowing a gasp as the motion pulled her ribs. “Why? He’s welcome to come back.”

Angela shot her a desperate glance. “ _Please_ don’t tempt it.” 

Fareeha buckled her seatbelt, and upon hearing the soft _click_ , Angela peeled out of the parking garage, fast and reckless as they fled the hospital. Fareeha was more concerned with the doctor herself—she’d never seen Angela lose control like this. Neither spoke as she drove three miles in the opposite direction from Fareeha’s apartment, not until she slid into a parking lot by a run-down apartment complex.

Angela turned the car off, then closed her eyes and drew a long breath through her nose.

“That was incredibly dangerous for you.”

Of all the things Fareeha expected to hear, that wasn’t it. Her words were exasperated. “Dangerous for _me_?”

“Yes!” Angela faced her now, and Fareeha was shocked into silence seeing the bright tears glistening on her cheeks. “Yes, Fareeha, it was. He might have attacked you. And—and what then? You have at least three broken ribs. A splinted wrist. A body that’s been beaten far too much this week—what if he’d figured that out? All my work, all your healing—”

Fareeha shrugged now. “I mean, we were pretty close to an ER, so—”

“This _isn’t a joke_ ,” Angela snarled.

Fareeha stilled.

Angela’s shoulders were trembling, shaking harder as more tears spilled from her eyes. In apparent irritation, she shoved her lab coat’s sleeve up—then seemed to notice the blood splatters on it. It wasn’t a lot, but it seemed to shock her into silence.

“ _Scheisse_ _,_ ” she said, anguish leaking into the word.

“Angela…” Fareeha swallowed, finding her thoughts. An experience like that was scary for anyone, and scarier still when defense wasn’t truly an option. In Fareeha’s mind, it was a controlled fight, but for Angela—things had been spiraling for a while before Fareeha even arrived.

That had to be disorienting.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, or—” Fareeha’s voice cut off as she realized another implication. “We need to report this. If he has time to twist the story, then you might—”

Angela numbly tugged her phone from her lab coat’s pocket, tossing it to Fareeha. It was unlocked, and as she turned the device over in her hand, realizing it was recording. It had _been_ recording this entire time.

“You knew.” Fareeha was the one who felt numb, now. A flare of regret, a flash of anger. “You knew he’d try something, and you baited him.” It was an ingenious move, but fear made Fareeha’s voice sharp. If she hadn’t shown up when she did, who knew what Reyes might have tried.

Angela never should have put herself in that position.

But the doctor’s voice turned vitriolic: “He followed me into the parking garage after insisting I work overtime—just long enough for the other interns to clear out. I turned that video on as a failsafe.”

Her implication was clear: she hadn’t lured him into anything. She’d merely been trying to survive.

Fareeha stopped the recording and handed the phone back to Angela, sinking further into the car’s seat. Gone was the satisfaction at protecting Angela, replaced by something much less appealing. Disgust at her own words added a nasty tune to the string of curses in her brain.

What she said was, “I’m sorry, Angela. I shouldn’t have implied that.”

“Please, Fareeha. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Angela’s trembling was starting to subside, although every once in a while a shudder would wrack through her. She drew a shaking breath and stared miserably out the front windshield. “ _Why_ did this have to happen?”

Fareeha didn’t have an answer to that. She just tugged off her sweatshirt—hissing as the motion wrenched her ribs, sent pain screaming through her nerves—and handed it to Angela.

“Something without blood on it.”

Angela nodded, worming out of the lab coat and replacing it with Fareeha’s zip-up. The dichotomy of the casual article paired with her blue scrubs was almost jarring. Angela dabbed her cheeks, and Fareeha had to fight the urge to kiss her forehead and pull her into a hug.

It probably wouldn’t be comforting.

Probably, it’d be creepy.

She settled for the next best thing. “I’m, um. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Without your presence, I fear that would have g-gone very differently.” Angela’s breath hitched, and Fareeha had to quell the rising horror at that thought. She was about to suggest a solution—self-defense so it didn’t happen again, maybe alerting every news station within a hundred meter radius about Reyes’s behavior—but Angela added: “What… ah, what were you doing there? Did your injuries flare?”

Fareeha almost chuckled. “No, you’re too good a doctor for that.” Now her eyes dropped to her knuckles, red from the hit to Reyes’s nose. She couldn’t meet Angela’s gaze. “I—was worried. About you, I mean. After you didn’t text, I felt like something was wrong.”

“Oh.” Angela’s voice was soft now. “So, you came all the way to the hospital to check on me?”

“Sounds kind of stalker-ish when you say it like that.” Fareeha coughed awkwardly, her cheeks coloring.

Angela was startled into a quiet chuckle. After a moment, her fingers slipped over Fareeha’s, deep caramel contrasting beautifully with pale milk. Fareeha stared at their intertwined fingers, mesmerized, holding her breath without realizing it.

The doctor squeezed her hand. “I’m truly grateful you showed up. It’s… been a long while since someone’s worried about me like that.” A pause, a shy smile when Fareeha met her gaze. “It’s a pleasant change.”

“Ditto,” Fareeha rasped, mouth dry as sandpaper.

For another breath, Angela let them sit there— _holding hands_ —before withdrawing. Fareeha instantly missed her touch, but she cleared her throat anyway. “I don’t mean to take up more of your time.” Her eyes traced the run-down complex before them, all rotting wooden staircases and grimy windows and faded paint. “Is this where you live?”

“It is,” Angela’s face colored a bit. “It’s nothing much, but with my loans, it was… difficult… to justify more. Especially when I’m hardly home to appreciate it.”

“I think it’s nice,” Fareeha lied.

Angela rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop. It’s adequate for now. Would you like to come in, or—or should I drive you home?”

If Fareeha had been standing, she would have tripped over herself to say yes. As it was, she forced her enthusiasm to a more reasonable level, and said casually, “Whatever’s easiest. I don’t mind visiting. Or I can always walk home—”

“Fareeha,” Angela said through an exasperated sigh. “You most certainly aren’t walking home. Come upstairs for a minute; I’ll perform your check-up here. Maybe we can have a drink.”

She still looked shaken, and Fareeha read between the lines.

 _I don’t want to be alone right now_.

Fareeha’s body chilled in cold fury, but she forced warmth into her tone for Angela’s benefit. “I’d love something to drink.”

“Water, on your painkillers. Possibly soda, if I’m feeling generous.”

“Ouch. That was misleading.”

Angela laughed, and this time, it barely sounded strained.


	8. The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Reyes's actions resonate through Angela's life. Meanwhile, Fareeha deals with her own issues.

Angela unlocked her apartment door and instantly regretted the invitation. Fareeha’s apartment hadn’t exactly been _neat_ , but it looked pristine compared to Angela’s chaos. The nanite research spread across every spare surface, piles of papers and computers and lab equipment looking like they were remnants of a natural disaster.

Her face warmed for the umpteenth time that night, and she reluctantly stepped aside to allow Fareeha entry. “It’s, ah… a bit messy. I’ll clear the couch.”

Fareeha hobbled after her—limping more than a little, Angela noted. Guilt slashed Angela’s chest again. Logically, she knew things would have gone _very_ differently if Fareeha hadn’t intervened tonight, but emotionally, all she felt was guilt that Fareeha worried at all. Especially injured as she was.

It didn’t seem to affect the wide smile that tilted Fareeha’s lips as Angela flicked on some lights. “Don’t you ever stop?”

“Hmm?” Angela asked from the tiny kitchenette.

“All this. Researching something?” Fareeha gestured at the desk with the microscope.

Angela swelled a bit. “Nanobiotic technology. The applications in a medical field are endless—it could help a lot of people. That’s worth my free time, I think.”

Fareeha was staring at her, almost like she’d completely forgotten where they were. It held a weight Angela wasn’t familiar with, one that made her squirm uncomfortably.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, just to fill the silence.

Fareeha jerked a bit, blinking hard. “Ah, no. Just remembering yet again how incredible you are.” The words seemed pulled from her soul, and once they made an appearance, Fareeha was clearly embarrassed by them. Her whole face colored, and she cleared her throat, strolling past Angela into the living room. “So, you mentioned a drink? Have you eaten anything?”

Angela was still basking in the word “incredible.” She recentered herself to the conversation with some difficulty. “Ah, of course. I have sparkling water, or—or plain water.”

“What a variety,” Fareeha drawled, amusement in her voice.

“I don’t entertain often, Amari,” Angela retorted.

“Well, Ziegler, in that case, sparkling water is just fine.”

“It _is_ flavored.” As if that would help her case any. Angela fought past her thumping heart to pour two cups of seltzer, then handed one to Fareeha. She took a sip as Angela began clearing the space on her beat-up couch.

“Oh,” Fareeha made a face. “Lemon? That’s your flavoring?”

“It’s a healthy choice.”

“I thought it’d be like, black cherry or something.” Her tone implied very heavily what she thought of Angela’s “healthy” choice. She took another, subtle sip and winced, then forced a truly pathetic smile for Angela’s benefit. “But this is… nice.”

Angela stifled a snort and handed her a glass of water instead, semi-satisfied at how she downed half the glass while Angela cleared the couch. At one point, Fareeha moved to help with the heavier textbooks, but one warning glance from the doctor stopped her cold.

“No heavy lifting,” Angela warned. She hadn’t missed the way Fareeha winced as she climbed the stairs, or how she shifted now, sweat beading on her forehead from the effort of standing. It was obvious she was aching—undoubtedly from the short jog to Angela’s car. Possibly from the punch. Definitely from the adrenaline crash.

Angela was feeling shaky herself, still, but she was the doctor here and couldn’t allow nerves to take over. Not when a truly injured individual needed attention.

“Those are hardly heavy—” Fareeha tried to say.

“All right, then. No lifting.”

Fareeha pressed her lips together.

Angela finished clearing the couch and motioned towards it. “How are you feeling after another day of rest?”

She’d thought, in all honesty, they were done with the Reyes drama. They’d addressed it in the car and everything was fine. But asking this question now felt robotic, made her realize how hollow she truly felt inside. Their banter about water flavoring faded away as Angela’s anxiety compressed in her chest, as she felt a tenuous mask slipping over her features.

Treat the patient. Personal problems could be handled at a later time, alone, in private. Just another day on the job.

Of course—and she should have known—Fareeha wasn’t fooled.

“Angela, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” Her voice was a bit curt now, challenging.

Fareeha’s tone softened further in response. She didn’t sit on the couch. Instead, she stepped closer, putting a gentle hand on Angela’s arm. “Pretend it wasn’t scary. Pretend everything is fine.”

Considering how _absurdly_ oblivious Fareeha was about her own mental blocks, Angela couldn’t believe her emotional intelligence when it came to others.

And it worked. Angela had spent all her life asking _others_ if they were fine—she’d never once had someone ask her the same thing. Her shoulders slumped, and unshed sobs wracked her body with tremors. Still, she tried to downplay it, because if she didn’t, she feared she might break.

“It—It’s fine. I can’t change the past.”

Fareeha hesitated, then put her glass down on the coffee table and stepped forward. Cautiously, as if waiting for Angela to pull back or refuse the advance, she wrapped the doctor in a hug.

Angela tensed. She’d wanted to be okay, wouldn’t have invited Fareeha upstairs if she’d known how close she was to shattering. But the memories of Reyes hunting her through the hallways, stalking after her in the dark parking garage, physically restraining her against her car—it bubbled to the surface in vivid detail, and Angela couldn’t shove them down this time.

She began to cry, latching onto Fareeha’s back, burying her head in the crook of her shoulder.

Instantly, Fareeha tightened her grip, her corded muscles hard around Angela’s arms, her heart beating strong under Angela’s ear. Her fingers smoothed Angela’s hair in a way that wasn’t just friendly, seemed _just_ this side of intimate. “I won’t let him hurt you again, Angela,” Fareeha whispered.

That made Angela cry harder, because it was a direct confirmation that, no matter how scary tonight had seemed—it hadn’t ended how Reyes planned.

Fareeha intervened.

Angela wasn’t sure how she could thank this woman, this person who—just weeks ago—had been merely a thought in her mind. How quickly they’d progressed since that point. Now, wrapped in Fareeha’s protective embrace, Angela didn’t think she could separate from Fareeha if she wanted to.

She should have known nothing would be a dealbreaker when it came to Fareeha Amari.

“T-Thank you,” she finally managed to say, her breath shuddering, her soul _so_ very spent. She pulled back, ducking her head, embarrassed. Fareeha hesitated for just a moment, her good hand lifting towards Angela’s chin like she wanted to tilt her head back—

—kiss her?

But of course she didn’t. Now wasn’t the time, and this certainly wasn’t the mood. And yet, as Fareeha respectfully stepped back, gently coaxed Angela onto the newly-cleared couch, Angela couldn’t stifle a flare of disappointment.

“Have you eaten?” Fareeha asked, and Angela realized belatedly that she’d inquired about that earlier, too.

Embarrassment suddenly filled Angela’s heart, making her face color with heat at the reversed roles. “I’m supposed to be checking you, Fareeha.”

The woman smirked, almost amused. “No new injuries, and trust me, I think you’d know if anything was going poorly. But I am starving. Do you have anything here—” she paused, squinting suspiciously at Angela. “—of course you don’t.”

“Hey,” Angela replied, indignant.

Even though it was true.

Fareeha heaved a sigh and stepped into the kitchen, limping just a little under the movement. Nearly out of sight, she didn’t seem to realize that Angela definitely noticed how her good arm wrapped around her chest, like her ribs were throbbing.

“I’ll order pizza,” Fareeha said, bringing Angela’s seltzer glass over to the living room.

“You’ll sit down, you mean.” Angela scooted over, patting the couch with a stern look. Her cheeks were probably still flushed with residual embarrassment over their emotional moment, but she wouldn’t tolerate a patient in pain. “Have you had any pain medicine in a while?”

Fareeha rolled her eyes, but dutifully perched on the couch. “Advil, about four hours ago.”

“Nearly time for another dose,” Angela said, no room for argument. She pushed to her feet and retrieved two, then handed them to Fareeha.

It struck her, as Fareeha downed the pills dry and called the nearest pizza place, how _nice_ this was. Two individuals sharing an amicable space, caring for each other in mutual ways. It wasn’t mundane, by any means, but… it certainly felt better than researching alone into the early hours of dawn.

Her mind flashed again to the hospital, to Reyes, and she realized the clock was ticking for her next shift. Feeling absolutely crummy about it, Angela tugged open her phone and sunk beside Fareeha, muting the device as she opened the recording. It was nearly 30 minutes long, far too large to prove her point to the chief of medicine and his HR rep.

“Yes. Pepperoni,” Fareeha said, then her brow furrowed, and she pressed the phone to her chest. “Pepperoni?”

Angela nodded numbly. Fareeha frowned, but put the phone back to her ear, then tugged a thin leather wallet from her back pocket.

“I can—”

Fareeha cut Angela off with a stern look. She had Angela recite her address, then hung up once everything was confirmed.

Then, almost immediately, she plucked the phone from Angela’s grasp.

“I’ll do this. Just tell me who to send it to.”

The sheer gratitude Angela felt almost broke her a second time that night. She inhaled shakily while Fareeha sliced the beginning and end of that video, compressing it to the vital few minutes where Reyes made his move. Angela didn’t hear any of it—she’d closed her eyes to avoid the evidence, leaning into the couch and feeling a hundred years old.

After Fareeha was done and the video was sent, she put Angela’s phone down. “I sent the video to my cell too, just in case, and deleted it off yours. You shouldn’t have that marring all those personal photos.”

A wry smile overtook her lips, even though Angela knew for a fact her camera reel was mostly sunset pictures and research excerpts.

She bumped shoulders with Fareeha, curling her legs under her as she rolled her eyes. But a beat of silence passed, and she replied, “Ah, thank you. I know I said it before, but… thank you. Truly.”

“I would never have let him hurt you,” Fareeha replied, even as her complexion flushed a few shades darker. “But we should discuss the option of self-defense. I can teach you a few moves.”

Angela swallowed. “I don’t—want to learn how to fight.”

Fareeha, the fighter, bowed her head. “I know, Angela. But sometimes, you might not have a choice.”

The words hung between them.

Angela knew she was right. And the new implication of how their world worked made her more unsettled than anything Reyes had tried.

“Just let me know when you’re ready, okay? I’ll stay close in the meantime, if—if that’s alright with you.”

Angela glanced at her now, eyebrows hiking upwards even as warmth spread in her chest. It only took a second to respond, “That’s more than alright with me.”

Fareeha’s smile was absolutely blinding.

* * *

The next few weeks passed in a blur.

The chief of medicine at Angela’s hospital—a no-nonsense man with an unrelenting harassment policy—suspended Reyes pending investigation. It was all kept very hush-hush, but the other residents realized that Angela was involved after she was excused from rounds to attend the hearing. They whispered behind her back, but when one of the kinder interns, a large man named Baptiste, told her, “I’m glad you’re all right,” Angela stopped caring about the rest of them.

They had jobs to do, after all.

Fareeha was brought in as a witness, which made Angela nervous considering she still bore obvious signs of a fight—if they thought to ask, she worried Fareeha would admit to cage fighting, something that would irreparably damage her character in front of a panel of doctors. But she’d underestimated the woman’s composure under pressure. Fareeha never lied, but answered questions matter-of-fact and left them satisfied with the sequence of events.

Afterwards, a few other victims actually came forward—doctors in different departments who’d had the unfortunate experience of interning under Reyes. By the time the investigation was complete, their decision was clear.

A man like Gabriel Reyes had no place at the hospital.

What surprised her the most, though, was that HR offered her _compensation_ for her troubles. Angela stared, uncomprehendingly, as the woman perched across from her, fingers steepled, brow furrowed. The longer the silence went on, the more uncomfortable the woman seemed to become.

“When you were hired here, Doctor Ziegler, we promised a safe space. Gabriel Reyes broke that promise. We will be pursuing a revocation of his license overall, but in the interim, the Chief of Medicine and I believe it’s appropriate to ensure you feel cared for.”

 _So_ , _please don’t sue us_ , Angela thought, almost amused.

“My entire purpose in life is helping others,” Angela replied. “I’m very grateful you’ve given me the ability; despite recent events, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” A pause, a fleeting thought. “Although, if you cared to offer me a week’s vacation… I do think I would appreciate the break.”

It was a bold statement for someone who rarely cared for herself, but Fareeha had been pushing her to relax the last couple weeks, to enjoy her off-time, and Angela found herself falling into the notion. Her nanite research sat undisturbed as they filled her free moments with cheesy romance movies and casual chats at The Daily Grind.

She very much enjoyed it.

The HR woman smiled wide. “Done. One week’s vacation, starting at the end of your shift today, plus a small payout in exchange for your… discretion. We really are immensely grateful for your work, Doctor Ziegler.”

Angela smiled wide, signed the papers, and took her leave, relief filtering through her bones. She worked mechanically through the day, her mind bustling with the possibilities of a whole week off work. In truth, she hadn’t had the chance to think about relaxation much at all since—well, certainly not in the last decade.

Fareeha met her outside the hospital to escort her to her car. She’d surprised Angela the day after the attack, but now, two weeks later, it had almost become routine. She offered Angela a cup of rich hot chocolate, something to cut through the ever-increasing late-year chill, and forced a smile. “How was your day?”

She seemed tense. Angela forgot all about the good news and tilted her head instead. “What’s happened?”

Fareeha’s fingers tightened around her cup, and she took a stalwart sip. “Nothing of interest.” Her wrist was still splinted, and her ribs still clearly caused her pain on occasion, but overall she’d been healing very well. When she moved now, it was with powerful grace, not staggering steps.

Angela followed easily, taking a delicate sip of her own beverage. The Daily Grind used actual chocolate melted into their cocoa, and it was truly divine. How she ever settled for less was beyond her.

Her voice was curious, almost suspicious. “No offense, Fareeha, but you look like you swallowed some of my lemon seltzer.”

Fareeha deflated almost immediately, shoulders sagging as she led Angela up the staircase of the parking garage. “I—may—have gotten fired today.” The words were barely mumbled, accompanied with such humiliation that Angela had to stop short.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Fareeha.”

“It’s fine,” Fareeha replied, though it clearly wasn’t. Her eyes were pinched in worry. “My vacation time ended, and my boss wasn’t happy that I broke my wrist. Well, that, and… other things. To be fair, I haven’t been the best employee lately.”

Angela took her arm, stopping her from striding to the car, from brushing this off. The parking garage usually made Angela’s skin crawl, but in Fareeha’s company, it felt safer than nearly anywhere else.

Which made her all the more determined to ensure Fareeha was okay, truly.

“If you’re as good an employee as you are a person, they were fools to let you go.”

Fareeha clenched her eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “I appreciate the sentiment.” She made it very, very clear she didn’t believe it herself. “It’ll be fine. I’m just… a little stressed about rent. If my wrist weren’t broken, I’d go back to the ring, but—” now she stopped short, face coloring. “Never mind.”

Horror threatened to choke Angela. “N-no, please. Please, Fareeha, don’t do that. I have some savings. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking your money.” Fareeha offered a sad smile.

It wasn’t a confirmation that she wouldn’t be back to cage fighting eventually. Angela suddenly and shockingly wished her wrist would never heal.

The fervor of that sentiment, and how truly it echoed in her soul, surprised her.

“You’ll _take_ what I offer. It’s the absolute least I could do after Reyes and the hearing,” Angela crossed her arms. “The hospital is giving me a payout—I’ll have a check in your hands the moment it hits my account.”

Now Fareeha reeled backwards, eyes widening. “ _Angela,_ I’m not taking that money. This isn’t your problem. I’m the one who—”

“Intervened to save me? Gave me comfort when no one else would? Took it upon herself to bring me hot chocolate and walk me to my car each night since? Yes. I agree.” Angela’s eyes flashed, daring her to protest.

Fareeha fell silent for a long moment, then swallowed hard. “I _can’t_ accept it.” The words were strangled. “Your medical care would have cost six times my rent, at least. Angela, you’ve done enough.”

Angela’s frustration burned, but she sensed Fareeha wasn’t going to budge on this. With a sigh, she followed Fareeha to her car, deep in thought. As they piled in for the drive back to Fareeha’s apartment—a new evening ritual of movies and dinner had formed last week, nearly unspoken between them now—Angela brainstormed.

Schemed, more like.

“Take a vacation with me,” she said, suddenly.

Fareeha glanced at her, the streetlights as they drove through her neighborhood highlighting her surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“The hospital gave me a payout and a full week off.” It was a luxury, even on her tongue, and Angela’s grin spread. “Let’s go somewhere. A cabin, maybe? A week of relaxation, away from stress.”

Fareeha didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. She just hunched under Angela’s gaze. “I really should start sending out resumes.”

“Enough of that,” Angela snapped. “You’re going to be just fine. You didn’t love your position at the credit union, so this introspection will undoubtedly do you good. And I swear that under no circumstances will you be homeless.” Her voice softened. “Take a chance with me, Fareeha. I think we’ve both earned it.”

Silence filled the car, long enough for Angela to wonder if she’d overstepped boundaries. But Fareeha was quickly becoming the most important person in the world, and seeing her like this nearly broke Angela’s heart.

So when Fareeha cleared her throat and offered a small smile and an even smaller, “Okay. Let’s do it,” happiness flared, bright and warm.

A vacation. This was going to be excellent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned I'm going to throw most of the good tropes into this fic? Prepare yourself for "there's a snowstorm and we're in a cabin together--alone" and "oh no there's only one bed." LOL


End file.
